The Third Wheel
by Gameboy Rocker
Summary: Sherlock loves John, but after meeting Jim at St. Bart's, decides to throw caution to the wind and call him. He doesn't realize, of course, that he is sleeping with his greatest foe. Jim plans to use Sherlock's love for John to conquer him. Will things go according to plan? Johnlock and Sheriarty. Ch. 17 up!
1. Chapter 1

**This is the second Sherlock Holmes story I'm working on right now-the other one is based off the movie, this is, obviously, based off BBC's series. By the way, I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes, either version, except the idea for the stories. This chapter is, I think, a little bit shaky-I feel like I was trying to say too much and not using enough words lol. But, it's going to be very good, I think :) I'm trying to go by the episodes' timeline, but, when Jim comes into the picture, the pool scene is going to be pushed back, maybe indefinitely, as it wouldn't exactly fit in with the plot. But don't worry, there will be an equivalent-a much more slashy equivalent! Oh, and I'm an American, so if I use words/phrases/descriptions that aren't used in England, I'm sorry. I research the best I can, but it's hard to do a google search of "What do people in Britain call breakfast?", or what have you, and I've never been comfortable with the idea of a beta (no offense to any betas out there), so all the mistakes are mine and mine alone. But, hopefully there aren't too many :) Thanks for reading, and please review if you feel so inclined!**

Sherlock Holmes knew from the moment he laid eyes on John Watson that they were going to be inseparable. For starters, John was a soldier, which meant he probably possessed a strong moral compass, a love for justice, and outstanding courage. The latter was confirmed, only marginally, in their first conversation. Whereas most people were put off by Sherlock's blunt observations and even more forthright assumptions, John had still managed to hold his ground against the man. "We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" he had asked, incredulously. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your _name_."

On his return to the mortuary, Sherlock hadn't been able to keep the corners of his mouth from rising up into a smirk. Finally, he'd found a suitable flat mate. He'd met with several other potentials before, but they had all been nightmarish. One girl had, twice in their five-minute meeting, checked to make sure that the volume on her phone had been turned to the highest volume and, even then, she had kept the phone out on the table next to her coffee cup. She had purchased her drink with a credit card, and Sherlock had seen that the pen she pulled out of her purse was from the Corbigoe Hotel, which he knew to be wallet-friendly lodgings, especially useful if she intended to be there somewhat long-term. The phone, plus the hotel pen-she had been kicked out of her lodgings, and was waiting anxiously for lover to call and invite her back in.

The second potential, a twenty-two year old university student, had been obnoxious. He walked into the café with his headphones still in his ears, and his heavy metal music could be heard ten feet away. When he sat down with Sherlock, he hadn't turned off the iPod, simply turned the volume down to a bearable level. He'd texted through their meeting, and hadn't even _bothered_ to hide the two red bruises on his neck, each one a different size and shade. Sherlock could detect a pungent, rosy perfume emitting from him, and also two different colognes. The man had either slept with a man and then a woman the night before-perhaps in the reverse order, or he'd had a threesome.

Last but not least was the woman that Sherlock had dubbed Miss Insecurity. She was wearing high heeled shoes, but she walked slowly and glanced at the floor in front of her continuously. So, she wasn't used to wearing them, but she'd done so anyway to fit in with the fashion trends. She was talking rather loudly on her phone but Sherlock had noticed that, instead of a number appearing on her screen, it had been a picture of three cats. First problem, she was so insecure that she had to have pretend phone conversations and wear uncomfortable shoes, second problem, she didn't have any _human_ friends to put as her phone background. No, and no.

John was different. He didn't block out the world with obnoxiously loud music. He didn't need someone to make him feel valued. He didn't feel pressured to wear the latest trends or buy the newest gadgets. He was confident, intelligent, unpretentious, average, _boring_-the perfect flat mate for the eccentricity that was Sherlock Holmes.

The second time they were together, this was only reinforced when Sherlock invited the doctor to a crime scene with him.

"_You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."_

"_Yes."_

"_Any good?"_

"_Very good."_

"_Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"_

"_Hmm, yes."_

"_Bit of trouble too, I bet?"_

"_Of course. Yes. Enough. For a lifetime. Far too much."_

"_Wanna see some more?"_

"_Oh, God, yes."_

As Sherlock remembered the conversation, he chuckled. Suitable, indeed. He couldn't ask for a more perfect roommate. John's love for excitement and danger rivaled his own, but he was also calm enough to provide a listening ear when Sherlock needed to rant or brainstorm.

"No offense to you, of course," Sherlock said aloud, glancing at his skull sitting on the coffee table. He dropped into his chair and picked it up, letting his fingers fondly roam over the smooth dome and the mandible. "You've gotten me through some rather difficult times in the past."

It was ten thirty, and John had already turned in for the night. Sherlock pulled his crisp white shirt over his head and then leaned back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of cool leather against his skin. He sighed and leaned his head back while reaching into his pocket and pulling out his unopened box of nicotine patches.

"Hello my friends," he mumbled as he slid his finger under the top cardboard slit and pulled it upwards. "I think two will be sufficient for now."

As he pulled out two of the paper-wrapped patches, his thoughts drifted, as usual, to his flat mate. "I'm smitten," he told his skull as he threw the paper wrappings on the floor. "For the first and only time in my life, I think I'm in love."

He didn't really _think_ he was in love, Sherlock _knew _he was in love. In the short amount of time between their first and second meeting, Sherlock hadn't stopped thinking about him. Oh, he'd kept busy with more productive things, such his fencing lesson, learning a new composition on his violin, riding around London to see which streets were newly undergoing construction, yes, he'd been busy. But he still found himself thinking about Dr. John Watson. Is he always that easy to talk to, or was he just comfortable because Mike was there? Is he a good doctor? What's his bedside manner like? Militant and candid, or charming and compassionate, as doctors are portrayed?

"I don't even _believe _in love!" Sherlock snarled as he slapped the patches onto his arm. "_Especially_ when it's towards someone you don't even know! Love at first sight, please!" He turned his head towards his skull and threw up his hands in an expression of exasperation. "And yet, it's happened. To me, of all people."

The sound of a door creaking open made him silent. He lifted his head and saw John peering out of his bedroom. He had wrapped his maroon robe tightly around his small body.

"Remember the first day we met, you told me that you sometimes went days without speaking?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

John smiled, although Sherlock knew the smile wasn't meant to be genial. "Well, why not start now? It's almost eleven o'clock, and I'm tired." He squinted at Sherlock. "What in God's name are you doing?"

"Getting high," Sherlock said snidely. He lifted his left arm and motioned at the two nicotine patches. "I thought I deserved a reward, after such a pleasant solution to our case."

John raised his eyebrows. "_Our_ case? That's funny, I think it was _you_ that did most of the work."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all, John." He stood up and twisted to his left, then to his right, and shook his arms rapidly. "God, it's been a long day."

"Go to bed then. You've hardly slept at all these past few days, and you've eaten even less."

"I'm aware of that, thank you."

"Are you always like that?"

"While I'm working, yes." Sherlock locked his gray eyes against John's pale green ones. "While I'm working, there are more important things to do than sleep and eat." His mouth rose into a small, barely discernable smile. "Goodnight, John."

John nodded, mumbled 'goodnight' and turned around and retreated back into his room, closing the door tightly shut behind him.

Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs to his own bedroom. He had let John have the room on the lower floor, even though he'd known that the doctor's limp wasn't a real injury. It had seemed like the decent thing to do. Not that Sherlock cared about the decent thing to do-normally. But, when John was concerned, it seemed to be the deciding factor in all of his actions, and his reactions.

Even though they'd only known each other a few days, Sherlock had already once made a feeble attempt at gauging how John would react to his feelings towards him. Thankfully, John had been the one to create the opportunity.

"_You don't have a girlfriend, then?"_

"_Girlfriend, no. Not really my area."_

"_Oh really? Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."_

"_I know it's fine," Sherlock had said, perhaps a little too eagerly._

"_So you've got a boyfriend-"_

"_No."_

"_Right. Okay. You're unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good."_

Here was his chance. Say something casual, Sherlock-don't let him know your legs are shaking, that your heart is racing, just act normal!

"_John, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and, while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for anything."_

But then, John had gone on to dismiss the notion that he had been intending to apply anything other than a keen interest in his new friend's romantic preferences. Damn, Sherlock thought to himself as he sat on his bed. His sister is a lesbian or, at the least, bisexual, so he probably has no aversion to homosexual relationships. So, would he be adverse to pursuing one? Would he be adverse to pursuing one with _me_?

Sherlock closed his eyes, and as he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts were, _this is a mistake. If I keep letting this infatuation grow, it's going to get deeper and deeper, and where will I be then? The reason that I've become such a successful detective is because I don't let myself get personally involved, with _anyone_. I have no biases, no fears, no one to put before myself._

_That is, I didn't. But now that I've met John Watson, things are going to change. _


	2. Chapter 2

**My main focus in this chapter was to REALLY get across how Sherlock is feeling towards John. He's going about his normal activities-in fact, this takes place around The Blind Banker-but instead of focusing on the case, I'm focusing on his thoughts, which, oddly enough, seem to mostly be about John. Overall, I'm pretty pleased with it. Thank you to everyone who's reading, and a big thank you to those who have left me with compliments and or criticisms! Now, I am an American trying to write about Englishmen, so if I mess something up in that aspect, I just want to warn you lol. Thanks again for reading!**

Sherlock opened his eyes. He could tell from the faint glow behind his thick drapes that it was morning, late enough for the sun to be up. "John!" he shouted, his voice croaking from sleep. "John, are you awake?"

His phone vibrated on the nightstand next to him. Sherlock groaned and rolled over and flipped it open. The newly-arrived text message read:

_Yes. You could have come down here and saved yourself the trouble of screaming._

Sherlock grinned. John really was adorable when he was trying to chastise him.

"No, Sherlock, no!" the detective moaned as he slung his bare arm over his eyes. "Don't think like that. It's _that_ kind of thinking that's going to get you into trouble! And him, too!"

He lurched out of bed and grabbed a crumpled white t-shirt laying at the foot of his bed. As he walked out of his room, he pulled the shirt over his curly hair, then straightened it against his slim frame. He froze when he got to the doorframe. _Wait. _He turned around. _I don't want him to see me like _this_. _

Sherlock retreated back into his room and rummaged around in his closet until he settled on a simple wine-colored sweater and a pair of light khaki pants. As he left the room, again, and began down the steps, he twined his fingers through his hair and brushed it down nonchalantly.

"Morning," John said to him when he reached the bottom of the steps. John was sitting at the table, typing away on his laptop, with a cup of coffee next to him and the morning's newspaper, unopened.

"Hey," Sherlock said in response. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine," John answered without looking up at him. "Except, I was woken up last night by some very loud and incessant talking."

Sherlock walked up to him, head cocked and eyebrows furrowed, and placed his hand on the doctor's shoulder and squeezed it gently. John glanced up at him. "What?"

"You're not…you're not hearing voices again, are you?"

John couldn't help but snicker, which was the exact reaction Sherlock had hoped for. He permitted himself a small smile.

"I _did_ tell you that it is helpful to me to talk aloud when I'm thinking. Have you eaten?"

John shook his head.

"Let's go out then. There's a bakery just opened on Lincoln's Inn Fields, I've heard-"

"Sorry," John interrupted, his voice quiet. "I think I'll just stay in today."

"Relax," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. He picked up his scarf-which was sitting crumpled up on the fireplace mantle, right where he'd left it the day before-"I'll spot you." He picked up John's coat, which had been carefully draped over the doctor's chair, and tossed it to him. "Come on."

John rolled his eyes, but stood up and followed Sherlock out of the living room. "Fine," he said, "but I don't need you to spot me."

"Yes, you do," Sherlock insisted as he pulled on his own coat, found hanging on the staircase rail. "We had hardly anything edible in our flat, yet, when you went to pick up groceries, you barely brought back anything at all. A litre of milk, three cans of beans, a box of biscuits, a bag of apples, vodka, three-"

"Yes, yes, I know what I bought. What's your point?"

"My point," said Sherlock as he opened the front door, motioning for John to exit first, "is that you're under considerable financial stress. Which is understandable, as for the past few years of your life, the army has been paying for your every want and need, and you had a salary on top. Now you've been dropped off with a measly pittance, and as you are, shall we say, _between_ jobs, it's only natural to be a bit empty-handed."

John raised his eyebrows and slipped his hands inside his coat pockets as the two began the trek to Lincoln's Inn. "Oddly enough," he said innocently, "when you put it that way, I don't feel as much of a sponge as I was."

"Feelings are nothing but trouble, John. That's why it's better to not have any at all."

_You're one to talk_, Sherlock thought to himself. _He's made you feel more than you've ever felt in your life. _

While they walked, Sherlock became increasingly aware of how badly he wanted to reach out and take John's hand in his own. Instead, he settled for 'accidentally' brushing his fingers against John's. John, immediately, jerked his hand away. "Sorry!"

"My fault," Sherlock mumbled innocently. _Damn_.

The rest of the walk was rather uneventful, yet Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. He amused John by telling him interesting facts about everyone they passed, and then impressed him by explaining how he had come to know said facts. Despite the chill in the air, it was a beautiful day, with clear skies and the sun shining brightly.

When they arrived at the bakery, Sherlock handed John a ten-pound note, saying, "If that's not enough, let me know."

"Thank you," John said as he took the bill from him. "Are you not getting anything?"

"Oh no, I am. But their menu is large, you'll probably need time to look over it. I'll order and save us a table."

Sherlock walked up to the counter and ordered his customary cinnamon walnut scone and a large cup of coffee, black with two sugars. He paid the cashier, gave her his name, and then turned around and surveyed the restaurant for a table. The time was a quarter past ten, so they had missed the breakfast rush, and had some time before the lunch crowd would swarm in. Even so, the majority of the tables were occupied. There was a tall one right by the window, with two stools, and Sherlock walked over to it and took his long coat off and draped it over the stool. He sat and took his phone out of his pants pocket and set it to vibrate-he didn't want to be interrupted by Lestrade or Mycroft over a petty matter, but he also didn't want to miss any exciting opportunities.

"What did you get?" John asked, settling into the chair across from him.

"A scone and coffee. You?"

"Spinach omelet and toast."

"Ugh," Sherlock said with a grimace. "I hate omelets. _Especially_ spinach ones."

John smirked. "Good, that means I don't have to share it with you."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, as I'm the one who paid for it, technically _I _am sharing with _you_."

John chuckled. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"You've already thanked me."

"Yes, well, you didn't say 'you're welcome', so-"

"You're welcome," Sherlock interrupted. He looked intently at John. "Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Not always, but for most of my life, yes." John chuckled. "You'll never guess what else I wanted to be."

"Try me," Sherlock said with a snide grin. "Let's see. It takes a certain type of person to be called to military service. They tend to be prompt, rigid, very by-the-book. They're also not adverse to doing the same things repeatedly, whether it be drills, exercises, or tasks." He smirked. "An engineer. That was it, wasn't it?"

John laughed and shook his head. "You couldn't be any more wrong. I told you you'd never guess it." He leaned in closer to Sherlock, his arms setting on the table, and said, his voice barely above a whisper, "When I was a kid, I wanted to be the ice-cream man."

The two flat mates broke out into a fit of giggles simultaneously. Thankfully, when the waitress arrived with their food, both had regained their composure.

"John Watson?"

"That's me," John said, a grin still plastered on his face. He reached out and took the plate from her. "Thank you."

"So that must make you Sherlock Holmes?" She looked at Sherlock and smiled broadly.

"Obviously," Sherlock said curtly. He took his coffee and plate from the girl. "Thanks."

He had expected her to leave, but she didn't right away. She flipped her long black hair away from her eyes, which were still transfixed on the detective. "My name's Vanessa, if you need anything."

_She's flirting with me, _Sherlock realized. _It wasn't my imagination. She said, if _you_ need anything, meaning me. Well, Vanessa, I need nothing from you, except to be left alone._

"Thanks," John was saying to her. "Everything looks great."

Vanessa-finally-left them alone and went to wait on the other customers. Sherlock started preparing his coffee as John cut into his omelet.

"What about you?" John asked. "Did you always want to be a detective?"

Sherlock shook his head as he emptied his sugar packets into his cup. "Not always, but, like you, for most of my life. I considered chemistry and forensics."

"Really?" John sounded genuinely surprised. "This coming from the man that chased a cab halfway across London, and that gets bored after ten minutes of inactivity? I can't imagine you having a desk job."

As he stirred his coffee, Sherlock shrugged. "It would have its pros and cons. I wouldn't have to put up with idiots all day, but, yes, both lack the thrill of the chase."

"I thought you considered everyone an idiot."

"I do," Sherlock said honestly. "But, the people I associate with now are, more or less, by choice. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, they're the best available. Not that that's implying anything."

"Ah, I see," John said with a nod. He took the last bite of his omelet. "And me?"

Sherlock smirked. _And, again, the dear doctor brings up an opportunity for admission. _"You, John," he said as he picked up his scone, "you-" he paused in mid-sentence. Not only was he unsure of how to explain his impression of John to the man himself, but he had found something curious underneath his scone. On the back of a blank business card, a phone number had been written, underneath which read _Vanessa__._

"What is that, Sherlock?" John asked, as the other picked up the card and crumpled it up.

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. Just some unwanted attention. Vanessa!"

The slim waitress was scrubbing a table near theirs, but looked up when Sherlock called to her. She smiled and dropped her rag on the table and, wiping her hands on her apron, walked over to them.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock held out his hand. Vanessa, no doubt expecting to get a phone number in return, held hers out. Sherlock dropped the crumpled message into her hand and said, icily, "Here's some advice: don't give your number out to strangers. It'd be a shame if it were to fall into the wrong hands." He slid out of his chair and picked up his coffee cup. "Come on, John."

As they were walking out of the bakery, John said, "Well, I can see why you're single."

Sherlock smiled.

**/break\**

"_What_?"

"It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun," John said, innocently.

"That's what I was suggesting," Sherlock said. _God, I hope that didn't sound desperate._

John's eyebrows lifted. "No, it wasn't. At least, I hope not."

_Damn_. _He's not buying it-change the subject, Sherlock. _"Where are you taking her?"

"The cinema."

"Ugh, dull. Boring. Predictable."

He approached John and handed the doctor a small, crinkled pamphlet for the Chinese circus he had been intending to attend that night. "Why don't you try this? In London for one night only." _I'll be there whether you come or not. But I really hope you come_.

John had snickered, told Sherlock that he didn't come to him for dating advice, yet, he did come. And so did Sarah. Sherlock hated to admit it, but, honestly, she seemed like a perfectly decent woman. Well, as a decent as a woman could be. She was attractive, confident, genial-yet he still hated her, and he wasn't going to give John up without a fight.

"I need your help!"

John, defending himself as always, retorted, "I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening."

"Like _what_?" Sherlock regretted the harsh tone of his voice as soon as the words were said, but John didn't give him time to apologize. He looked at the detective incredulously.

"You _are _kidding?"

_Calm down, Sherlock, calm down. _"What's so important?" he asked John, and, thankfully, he had managed to lower his voice to a whisper.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date. You want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to…"

"What?" Sherlock asked, impatiently. _You know what; you shouldn't have asked._

"While I'm trying to _get off _with Sarah!"

Even though he'd been expecting such an answer, the words stung terribly. Sherlock turned around and continued up the stairs not bothering to see if John was following him or not.

_Focus, Sherlock. You have bigger problems now. You _know_ that this circus is the gang you're looking for. Now you just have to prove it. Don't think about John, don't think about John, don't think about John. _Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, irritated. _By thinking about _not_ thinking about him, I'm thinking about him_, he told himself bitterly.

He tried to give John his space during the performance. When he saw that the performers were going to act out the warrior's escape, he told John, "Classic Chinese escapology act. Crossbow's on a delicate string-the warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." _Okay, that's enough, now shut up. You don't want to piss him off._

The warrior was bound, chained to a pole, and a gong rang, signaling the beginning of the routine. Sherlock saw Sarah jump, then clutch at John's arm until her own was wrapped around it. Sherlock stared at their intertwined arms.

_Okay…she has until the count of ten to let go of him. One. Two. Three. Four-_meanwhile, the ringleader of the acrobats reached into a basket and pulled out a long black knife-_five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

_That's enough._

Sherlock leaned in ever-so-slightly towards John. "She splits the sandbag. The sand pours out…gradually, the weight lowers into the bowl."

_Good, good, you've reminded him that you're still here_, he thought to himself. _Now go and investigate. You didn't come here to spy on him; you came here to spy on _them_, now do it!_

**/break\**

The next day, as Sherlock reflected on the case, he realized that the moment he realized that John had been abducted was one of the scariest in his life. And, even scarier, it had happened right under his own nose. He'd only been a few meters away from the front door of their apartment, and yet, when he returned, John was gone. Thank God he had reached him before something happened, either to him or to Sarah. Sherlock still had a lot to learn about John, but he knew that the doctor would never forgive himself if he couldn't prevent someone he cared about from being hurt.

_Yet another reason my feelings for you are dangerous, John. You're too kind for your own good._

**R&R please :) Next chapter=Sherlock meets Jim. Sherlock calls Jim. Then what happens? You'll have to wait and see!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Longest chapter yet! But, to be honest, over half of this is straight from The Great Game. So, if you haven't seen that yet (you poor deprived soul), you might not want to read this. And yes, the pool scene does not happen. Instead of Sherlock meeting Moriarty at the pool, he meets him at his apartment. For a 'date'. I still own nothing of the Sherlock Holmes franchise, and I'm still an un-beta'd American, so any mistakes are mine. I hope it makes sense, I feel like I did some jumping around in this chapter, but that's probably my paranoia talking. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it! **

**Special thanks to those that have reviewed: SafariGurl, youkodoll, Battie-4-Battie-boys (and yes, I want to hug him too ^_^), Darmed (by the way, your words were VERY encouraging to me, thank you!), and veritas-curat. Thanks so much!**

Sherlock hated John working. He was gone all day, everyday, and Sherlock was left lounging around by himself. Which, just a few weeks ago, he didn't mind-he'd actually _preferred _it. He would've been more than happy to pay a larger percentage of the rent, just to keep John at home, but he knew the very notion was whimsical. In this aspect, John was too much like him; he couldn't sit idly by when there was rent to be paid, money to earn, patients to help.

'_You get your thrills from solving mysteries, I get my thrills from helping patients', he had told Sherlock on his first day of work._

'_And what about me?' Sherlock had asked. 'I need you.' Seeing John's confused expression, he continued earnestly, 'On my cases. We've known each other hardly three weeks, and you've already saved my life once.'_

_John shrugged, and Sherlock noticed that his right shoulder was able to rise higher than the left. 'It's not like I'll be out of the house 24/7. And you know how much I love what you do; I want to keep coming with you. It's a very lax position, Sherlock-calm down. You're acting like I'm moving out.'_

_Bam! Bam!_

Sherlock slumped further into his chair and stretched his long, slim legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles. He sighed heavily, and his firm chest rose and fell with the breath. Downstairs, the front door opened and was loudly shut. John was home. Sherlock straightened out his left arm again, pointed it towards the wall, and fired.

_Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!_

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" John questioned when he was standing in the doorway, his hands falling away from his ears.

"Bored," Sherlock mumbled. It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears.

"_What?_"

"Bored!" Sherlock shouted. He shot up out of his chair and, ignoring John's protests, shot the wall again, and then wrapped his arm around his back and fired again.

_Okay, now that you've thoroughly impressed him with your excellent marksmanship, give him his gun back, and sit _down_!_

"I don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock complained as he walked towards the sofa and deposited the revolver in John's hands. "Good job I'm not one of them." John, now, was busy disassembling his gun and returning it to its case.

"So you take it out on the wall?"

"Oh, the wall had it coming," Sherlock answered nonchalantly. He flopped down on the couch and propped shoulders against the pillows. It sat three people, yet it still wasn't long enough for his lanky body.

"What about that Russian case?"

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder, not worth my time."

"Ah, shame," John said with mock sympathy as he went into the kitchen. Sherlock heard him mutter under his breath.

_I did forget to move my chemistry set, didn't I._

"Anything in?" John asked loudly. "I'm starving." Sherlock heard him open the refrigerator door, and smirked. "Oh, f-" and the door was shut. Opened again, and shut a few seconds later.

"A severed head!"

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock told him. He wasn't in the mood to eat.

"No, there's a _head_ in the fridge!"

"Yes…"

"A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock inquired. "You don't mind, do you? I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." _Okay, you've explained yourself, now, change the subject; talk about him. _"I see you've written up the taxi driver case." He waved his hand, motioning for John to sit down.

"Yes."

" 'A Study in Pink'. Nice."

"Well, you know," John said with a shrug, "a pink lady, pink case, pink phone. There _was _a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

Sherlock picked up a magazine sitting on the coffee table next to him and flipped it open. "Um…no."

"Why not?" John asked, sounding shocked. "I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock repeated bitterly. He dropped the magazine on his chest and glared at John. " 'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds, what's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'."

"Now, hang on a minute," John stammered, "I didn't mean that-"

"Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a _nice_ way? Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister, or…who's sleeping with who-"

"Or whether the earth goes around the sun?"

"Oh, not that again," Sherlock said with a slight roll of his eyes. "It's not important."

"Not important?" John asked in disbelief, as he adjusted himself in his chair to face Sherlock better. "It's _primary_ school stuff. _How _can you not know that?"

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it," Sherlock replied. He had brought his hands up to rub his eyes.

"Deleted it?"

Sherlock hissed in annoyance and sat up, throwing his magazine back onto the table. "Listen," he said as he brought a finger up to his temple, "_this_ is my hard drive. And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. _Really_ useful." He winced. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

John looked, for a second, as if he did understand, but then he cried, "But it's the _solar system_!"

"Oh, _hell!_" Sherlock moaned, lowering his face into his hands for a split second before jerking it back up and waving them around maniacally. "What does that matter? So we go around the sun? If we went around the moon, or-round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He mussed his hair, agitated. "Put _that_ in your blog! Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He slapped his magazine and rolled over, facing the back of the couch, pulled his robe tightly around him, and curled his legs up towards his chest.

It was only a few seconds before he heard John getting up from his chair and heading to the staircase. _Damn, I've upset him. Shit. _He craned his neck to watch glance at John. "Where are you going?"

"Out," John said as he pulled on his coat. "I need some air."

Sherlock hardly noticed when Mrs. Hudson came the flat with groceries. _What have I done?, _he thought, angry and upset simultaneously. He walked over to the window and, pulling the curtains aside a tiny bit, watched John walk away from their home. Sherlock considered texting him, but he decided against it. _Why are you even so upset, Sherlock? So he called you ignorant. It's a fact, that's all. You _are_ ignorant. People have called you much worse things before and you never cared, so why are you angry now?_ _I need to keep myself in check_, he decided. _I can't let him know what he does to me, or I'll lose him for good. _

Ironically, almost immediately after John left, Sherlock's life took an interesting turn. The complex directly across the street from his home was blown up. Sherlock, though he would never admit it, felt flattered when both Mycroft and John hurried to him the next morning. Mycroft, of course, had the convenient excuse of the missing Bruce Partington plans, but John had rushed into their flat, screaming his name. _He's forgiven me_, Sherlock realized. _Good. That means I don't have to apologize._

**/break\**

"_Hello, sexy."_

_Sexy? _Sherlock's grip around the pink phone tightened. "Who is this?"

"_I've…sent you…a little puzzle. Just to say 'hi'."_

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

"_I'm not crying. I'm…typing. And this…stupid…bitch…is reading it out."_

_Oh, God._ "The curtain rises," Sherlock said aloud.

"What?" John asked, glancing over at him.

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?"

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock answered curtly.

"_Twelve…hours to solve…my puzzle, Sherlock. Or I'm going to be…so…naughty."_

_Moriarty._

**/break\**

Sherlock's investigation of the origin, and mystery, of the pair of shoes took his to the lab inside Bart's. Molly had let John and him inside, and given him access to all the supplies he needed.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die," John told him, right after he'd practically admitted to an admiration of their mysterious bomber.

"What for?" He lifted his eyes from his microscope to look at John. "This hospital is full of people dying, _Doctor. _Why don't you go and cry about their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John didn't respond, but refused to look at him. Thankfully, the computer picked that time to complete the search. "Ah!" Sherlock said, pleased. He heard the lab door open, and turned his head to see Molly entering the room.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Oh, yes." He returned his gaze to the microscope, but looked at the door again when he heard a man's voice.

"Oh, sorry!"

The voice had come from a slim, pale man wearing a gray v-neck t, khaki cargo pants, and neon green underwear, the waistband of which was clearly visible above his pants.

"Jim! Hi! Come in, come in," Molly said, smiling nervously.

Sherlock looked from Jim to Molly as she continued, "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes. And, uh…sorry?"

"John Watson," John finished for her. "Hi." _He's pissed_, Sherlock noticed. _Dammit Sherlock, why do you have to say everything you think? You _knew _that you'd upset him, yet you said it anyway, why?_

"Hi," John said softly. Sherlock could feel the man staring at him, yet he didn't turn around. "So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

Sherlock heard Jim walking around to his other side as Molly explained, "Jim works in IT, upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," she finished with a wide smile. Jim chuckled, and Molly joined in.

_I can't take this anymore._

"Gay."

The smile instantly dropped off Molly's face. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered, lifting his head. "Um, hey." He tried to raise the corners of his mouth into a smile, just to satisfy John and Molly, but the expression probably came off more like a grimace.

"Hey," Jim said, and it didn't take Sherlock's great powers of observation to hear the awe that was in his voice. A loud clanking sound interrupted the awkwardness, followed by Jim dropping to the ground and picking up the specimen tray he'd just knocked off the counter. "Sorry, sorry!" _Oh, wonderful. Another phone number._

He clapped his hand again. "Well, I'd better be off," he said as he approached Molly. "I'll see you at The Fox, about sixish?"

"Yeah!" Molly said with an earnest smile.

"Bye," Jim said to Sherlock. "It was nice to meet you."

_Just get out of here._

"You too," John said blandly, and rather unconvincingly.

Jim left, and when the door had closed behind him, Molly asked, "What do you mean 'gay'? We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," Sherlock told her. He glanced over at her and his gray eyes darted over her body. "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Molly's face fell. "Two and a half."

"Hmm, three."

"Sherlock-" John tried to help Molly, but she interrupted him.

"He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil-he's not-"

Sherlock scoffed. "With _that _level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John asked sarcastically. "_I _put product in my hair."

"You _wash_ your hair," Sherlock argued. "There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. And there's this underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked, and her expression screamed, why were you even looking at those?

Sherlock nodded. "Visible above the waistline, _very_ visible, and a very particular brand. That-" he reached over and lifted the specimen dish that Jim had knocked off the table, and picked up a small card from underneath it, "plus the _extremely_ suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here, and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly looked from him to John, then back to him before storming out of the room. Sherlock's face softened as she burst through the door.

"Charming. Well done," John spat when she was gone.

"I was just saving her time," Sherlock explained, swiveling his chair to face John. "Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, _that_ wasn't kind."

_I know that. I just wanted to make _you_ think that I was doing something nice for someone else._

**/break\**

"_It's okay…that you've gone to the police."_

Sherlock frowned. Another hostage. "Who is this?" He stepped away from Donovan's desk. "Is this you again?"

"_Don't rely on them. Clever you-guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing."_

_Don't answer him, Sherlock. _"You've stolen another voice, I presume?"

"_This is about you and me."_

Loud roars were coming through the speaker of his phone continuously. "Who are you?" Sherlock asked. "What's that noise?"

"_The sound of life, Sherlock. But don't worry. I can soon fix that." _A pause. Then, _"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time, you have eight."_

The investigation continued, until, finally, Sherlock came to a standstill. What happened to this man? Was he murdered? In an accident? If murdered, by whom? If it was an accident, where is the body?

And then, the pink phone rang.

"_The clue…is in the name. Janus Cars."_

"Why would you be giving me a clue?" Sherlock asked.

"_Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."_

Sherlock smirked. "Then talk to me in your own voice."

"_Patience," _the victim said, and then Sherlock heard nothing but a dial tone.

_Made for each other. How quaint._

**/break\**

If it hadn't been for John, it would've taken Sherlock much longer to solve the bomber's third puzzle, as he himself rarely watched TV and had no idea who their 'client' was. After the fourth case was solved, John gloated that a little knowledge of the solar system would have been helpful and, while Sherlock hadn't denied it, he knew that he could look up information on the internet with the best of them.

When John announced that he was going to Sarah's that evening, Sherlock seized the opportunity to provide himself with a distraction of his own-a distraction from John. After all, if their bomber could have them, why couldn't he? His feelings for John were becoming more and more overwhelming with each passing day, more and more distracting-you might even say that he needed a distraction from his distraction.

Sherlock leapt from his chair and went up to his bedroom, and, finding what he was looking for hidden in a pair of his rolled out socks, pulled out his phone and dialed the number.

_Ring._

_Ring._

_Ring._

"_Hello?"_

Sherlock was silent. _Is this a mistake? _he asked himself. _What am I doing? I need to be focused, I…there's still one more victim; there has to be. I…John…I…_

"_Hello? Who is this?"_

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Jim. Hi. It's…me. Sherlock Holmes, from-from Bart's."

Sherlock had expected the normal gushing that he expected usually accompanied hearing from a potential partner, but he got none of that. Jim was as silent as he had been.

"I'm sorry if I caught you at a bad time," Sherlock mumbled. "I-I'll let you go."

"_No!" _Jim replied quickly. _"No, no…I just hadn't expected you to call me, that's all. I mean, I gave you my number four days ago, I'd almost given up hope."_

"I've been busy," Sherlock admitted. "Would you care to meet up?"

"_Um, yes of course! Tonight? Now? You can come over to my house."_

Jim told him his address, and Sherlock walked outside to hail a cab. He had thought a weight would be lifted from his shoulders but found that, instead, he felt worse than ever.

_I'm sorry, John._

**/break\**

Jim lived in the seedier outskirts of Soho, and Sherlock was hardly impressed when his taxi dropped him off. The apartment complex was ragged, broken down, covered in vines and graffiti. The only light was right above the entrance door, and it was buzzing loudly. Sherlock pressed on Jim's door buzzer, but then the door opened and Jim stepped outside.

"It's all right, I'm here," he said, smiling nervously. He held the door open for Sherlock. "Come in, come in. It's not safe to stand out here for long."

"So I gathered." Sherlock couldn't help himself. "Why do you live _here_? Surely you can afford better on your salary."

Jim laughed sheepishly as he pulled the door shut. "You would think so, wouldn't you." He opened a door leading down a hallway and motioned for Sherlock to follow him. "I'm quite comfortable here, to be honest. But, in any case, I just got the job at Bart's-haven't got much of a nest egg, if you get my drift."

Jim stopped at the third door in the hall and unlocked it. Sherlock noticed that the man's hands were shaking slightly.

"Are you nervous?" he asked.

"Nervous?" Jim repeated, turning around to look at Sherlock. "No, not at all. Why would I be nervous? Why would you _think_ that I'm nervous?"

"Your hands are shaking."

"Oh," Jim said, lifting both hands and bending his fingers rapidly. "No, no, I'm not nervous. Just excited."

"Excited?" Sherlock asked as Jim opened the door and led him inside. "Why?"

Jim shrugged. "Because," he said, grinning, as he clasped his hands together like he had at the hospital. "I've got a date with _the _Sherlock Holmes!"

_A date?_

Sherlock shook his head. "I think you misunderstood," he said softly. "I-I'm not looking for anything right now."

Jim cocked his head. "Then why did you call me?"

Sherlock licked his dry lips and let his eyes dart around the room, anywhere but at Jim's. The olive-colored wallpaper was peeling, the cream-colored carpet had, as far as he could tell, at least nine different stains on it. Jim's bed wasn't even a bed; it was a pull-out couch. The apartment was a studio; in one corner of the room was a half-sized refrigerator with a microwave sitting on top. The lights were buzzing, and the heater was making a loud clicking sound, followed by a _thump!_ as if something were inside being tossed around.

"Hey," Jim was saying, waving his hand in front of Sherlock's face. "You gonna answer me?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, I'm sorry. This was a mistake." _I can't do it. I just _can't_ do it. John and I aren't even together, we never will be, yet I feel that by doing this, I'm being unfaithful to him. Pathetic, Sherlock. Simply _pathetic.

"You came here for a reason, Sherlock," John told him. He smiled sympathetically. "Is it him?"

Sherlock locked eyes with Jim and furrowed his eyebrows. "Him?"

"Your friend. What was his name-Watson."

"You mean John. What about him?"

Jim smirked. "Like I said, Molly's told me _all_ about you. Particularly the part about you being an cold-hearted sociopath. She says you don't have any friends, that you don't want any. Yet, there he is. Ergo, there's something going on between the two of you."

"There is _nothing_ going on between us," Sherlock said coldly. _Who does he think he is, making assumptions about someone he doesn't even know? That's _my_ job._

"But you wish there were," Jim said gently. "I understand, trust me."

Sherlock shook his head. "Why would you think that?"

Jim chuckled. "Use that big brain of yours, my dear. When a cold-hearted bastard that hates the very idea of friends makes one for himself, it doesn't take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that he's not as much of a bastard as he'd like everyone to think." He stepped closer to Sherlock, until the two of them were hardly a foot apart. "Now, I'm going to ask you again: why did you call me?"

Sherlock's heart had sped up, and his breathing to match. He leaned forward, as did Jim, until their lips collided, noses brushed against each other, teeth grazed, tongues danced. Sherlock reached up and wrapped his hands in the other man's hair, but it wasn't the dark brown hair of Jim…it was soft and golden, John's hair. The lips were dry, like he'd always imagined they would be, and the cheeks were hot and flushed.

_Oh, John. You don't know how badly I've wanted this. _

_If only it were really you._

**I feel like such a jerk...poor Sherlock :( Next chapter might be a little dirty...I haven't decided. What do YOU think?**


	4. Chapter 4

**So, here it is-the rumored mature chapter! In all honesty, I'm pretty freaking pleased with how it turned out, because I've never written any porno scenes before. However, I still think this one is excellent, so I hope you all agree. Thank you to everyone for reading, and as always, a special thanks to those of you that review-you are what makes me write faster! lol.**

_Whoosh! _was the sound of Sherlock's thick wool coat being dropped to the floor as Jim tore it off his shoulders. Jim ran his fingers up and down Sherlock's sides before letting them rest on his bony hips. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's while he kneaded the detective's hips, rubbing them, prodding, squeezing.

Sherlock felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest. This wasn't his first sexual encounter, but it _was_ the first time that he had sought one out purely for pleasure. He had never told anyone-not even his skull-about how he had managed to pay his bills while living on Montague Street. But, he had told himself, they were desperate times, and desperate times call for desperate measures. It was the logical thing to do. He had no cases, couldn't get a job because employers were, understandably, immediately put off by his personality, and he had no friends or relations to turn to except Mycroft-but his pride kept him from that.

"Mmm," Jim hummed. "Has anyone ever told you how delightfully gorgeous you are?"

Sherlock exhaled, and his breath was loud and shaky. He leaned back. "N-No, I…I don't believe so."

"Good," Jim said with a sultry grin. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's scarf and tugged, pulling his head closer. "C'mere, you."

Their lips smashed together. Sherlock reached up and cupped Jim's cheeks, stroking his temples with his long fingers. His tongue darted over Jim's teeth, then his bottom lip, then the top lip, and then his tongue. He felt his scarf being untied, then saw it thrown aside from the corner of his eye.

Jim lowered his hands again to Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock felt himself being gently pressed in the direction of Jim's pull-out bed. "Lie down."

Sherlock did, and Jim was on top of him instantly. Hips straddled hips, groins pressed together, breaths came in rapid, desperate gasps. Sherlock stretched his hands out and grabbed Jim by both biceps and pulled him downwards. They shared a long kiss, wet and brutal, as Jim began rocking his hips slowly back and forth, and his arousal rubbed against Sherlock's.

Jim reached up and, holding Sherlock's arms by the wrists, pushed the pale arms above Sherlock's head, not breaking their kiss for a second. Sherlock pawed at Jim's hands desperately, until he finally slid his fingers from Sherlock's wrists to link their fingers together. Sherlock's grip around Jim's hands tightened immediately, and he squeezed so hard that it was almost painful.

In addition to rubbing their crotches together, Jim had lowered his chest to meet Sherlock's, in an act of crude frottage. He licked Sherlock's lips hungrily, then pulled away from his mouth and began lapping at his Adam's apple. Sherlock moaned, and Jim smiled when he felt the sound vibrate against his tongue. He pressed a firm kiss to the area and then lowered his mouth farther, to Sherlock's collarbone, which was barely visible underneath his shirt.

"Sorry, but I'm going to have to let go of you now," he said with a smirk, and pulled his hands away from Sherlock's. Jim leaned back and wasted no time in ripping Sherlock's shirt apart, sending buttons flying to the ground. "Oh, _God!_" he gasped when he saw Sherlock's bare chest rising up and down with each deep breath. "You're _perfect_."

"Let me see you," Sherlock whispered. He propped himself up on his elbows and locked eyes with Jim. "I want to see you."

_Where's your logic now?_ said the voice in his head as Jim began to unbutton his own shirt, taking his time on each one. _You're all but begging. Sherlock Holmes does _not_ beg. _

Sherlock closed his eyes. _You're not begging. You're asking; there is a difference. John, John, think of John. Oh, God, John._

When Jim had tossed his shirt to the floor, Sherlock reached up and put his hand on the back of Jim's head and pulled him down for another fierce kiss. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was passionate, fiery. When Jim pulled away, smirking. He leaned down and licked Sherlock's earlobe, then nibbled on it.

_Oh, John, yes! Yes, yes, just like that, oh, John…_

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt a pressure on his groin, and he looked down to see Jim's hand pressing against his cock, rubbing it through the fabric. Sherlock's back arched involuntarily, and he hissed in pleasure. "God_damn_!"

Jim grinned. "You like that, darling?"

"Yes," Sherlock panted. "God, yes."

He heard his trousers being unzipped, felt Jim sliding his pants down. Sherlock lifted his hips to make it easier, and quicker-he felt like he was about to explode. Jim seemed to be in just as much of a hurry; he tore Sherlock's clothes off, then began to fumble with his own zipper. He pulled down his jeans and underwear, and Sherlock noticed that this time it was baby blue instead of neon green.

Jim crouched down beside Sherlock's long legs and bent down so that his face was only an inch away from Sherlock's cock. He looked up at the detective. "You ready?"

Sherlock found that he couldn't get a word out; he was salivating, yet his mouth felt like sandpaper. Even if he could talk, though, he probably wouldn't be able to get out a coherent sentence. He settled for a curt nod.

The feeling of Jim's mouth on his cock, to put it mildly, _exquisite. _Every time his tongue flicked over the head or shaft, Sherlock would moan. He felt Jim cup his balls and squeeze and pull on them, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him gasp.

_Oh, John, the things you do to me. I love you. I love you so much. _

It wasn't a stranger's mouth wrapped around his cock; it was his best-his only-friend's, his partner's, his roommate's, colleague's, doctor's…practically everything but the one thing he wanted most of all: his lover's.

"That's enough," Sherlock said aloud. Jim looked up at him, confused.

"What?"

"Enough foreplay," Sherlock explained callously. "I'm ready. Where's your lube?"

Jim pointed to the head of the bed. "Under the pillow."

Sherlock rolled over and pulled the bottle of lube from under the pillow, and decided against asking Jim what it was doing there. He unscrewed the lid and handed the bottle to Jim. "Put it on me."

Jim grinned. "Gladly."

Sherlock sighed as Jim pumped his oiled hand up and down his cock, until it was covered in the slippery liquid. "Now turn around."

Jim did so, and Sherlock put his hands on the other man's hips as he guided his cock to its intended destination.

"Oh, _fuck!_" the two men gasped simultaneously, but clenching their eyes in pain and pleasure.

"Yes, Sherlock, _yes_!" Jim said, though the voice didn't sound like his own-to Sherlock, it sounded like John.

He pushed his cock all the way into Jim, then began rocking his hips backwards and forwards, slowly at first, but then faster to match his breaths. He caressed Jim's hips, then rubbed his sides, and bent forward until he could wrap his arms around the other man's chest and still rock against him. His nose and lips were in the crook of Jim's shoulder, and he kissed the groove where they met, then licked his neck hungrily.

_Does that feel good, John? _

"Oh, God Sherlock…more." Jim craned his neck to the left to give Sherlock easier access. "More, please…"

_Anything for you, John._

Sherlock continued to trail his tongue over Jim's neck and as far across his shoulder as he could reach. He placed tender kisses on the flesh, and bit it gently. "I'm close," he whispered into Jim's ear. He lowered his hands from Jim's chest to his cock and wrapped his right hand around it, pumping it furiously. "Come with me."

"_Fuck_! _Yes_!"

Almost instantly after Jim chocked out those words, an overwhelming sensation swept over Sherlock. He kissed Jim's ear. "Now," he said. "Oh, God, I'm coming…"

_John!_

His hips quivered as he emptied himself into Jim, and, from the sudden warmth and wetness he felt on his hand, it seemed that Jim had climaxed at the exact same time.

They both remained still for a few moments, panting, letting the sweat drip off their bodies. Sherlock broke the stillness by pulling out of Jim, slowly, and, after wrapping his hand around Jim's arm, reclining onto the bed. Jim laid down next to him, his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and an arm thrown across his chest. He looked up and smiled sweetly, then lifted his head and kissed Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock, exhausted from the mental and physical exertion he'd just participated in, sighed heavily and closed his eyes. The last thing he knew before he fell asleep was Jim whispering in his ear:

"He doesn't know what he's missing."

**/break\**

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to the sound of a pot whistling. He opened his eyes slowly and was greeted with the ratty olive-colored walls from the night before. He yawned and stretched before pulling the covers off his naked body and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Oh, sorry!"

Sherlock turned his head to see Jim walking through an archway, no doubt which led to the bathroom and, apparently, a counter with a heating pad. He had a mug in each hand.

"I meant to take it off before it whistled," Jim was saying, as he sat down next to Sherlock and held out one of the mugs for him to take, "but then I got carried away with some quartic equations and just forgot."

"Thank you," Sherlock said as he accepted the mug. He took a small drink and was pleasant surprised to find that it had the exact amount of sweetness that he liked.

"Two sugars," Jim said, as if reading his mind. "That's what I take in mine, so, I hope it's all right with you."

Sherlock nodded. "It's…fine."

Jim smiled and downed the rest of his mug, then stood up and picked up his phone from on top of the desk in the far corner of the room. _Strange, _Sherlock thought. _I didn't even notice that last night._

_You had more important things on your mind, Sherlock._

"So," Jim said as he flipped his phone open. He glanced at it, then put it in his jeans pocket. "What do you say we get some breakfast?"

Sherlock finished his coffee and, after setting the mug on the headboard of the bed, stood up. "I don't think so," he said, bending down and pulling on his shirt. "I'm expecting a call. Unless-" he glanced around for his trousers-"unless I've got it already."

He picked up his pants and pulled his phone out, eagerly checking his missed calls for any blocked numbers.

"_You have five missed calls_," his phone told him, and when Sherlock glanced at the numbers, he raised his eyebrows. Five missed calls, all from John.

"_You have seven unread messages."_

Sherlock opened each one individually, and his heart sank with each message.

_9:56: _Sherlock, where did you go?

_10:37:_ Are you all right?

_10:53: _Don't make me call your brother.

_11:27: _Okay, I'm getting worried now. Where are you?

_12:03: _Sherlock, please, just text me. Send a blank message, I don't care, just, something.

_2:16: _I swear to God Sherlock, if you're just too lazy to reach for your phone, I'm going to kill you.

_4:46: _Please tell me you're okay.

_Shit! He's been up all night waiting for me. _

He dialed John's number hurriedly, and held up a finger, signaling Jim to wait a moment. The phone rang once, twice, three, four times, and then John's voicemail came on the line.

"_Hi, this is Dr. John Watson, sorry I can't get to my phone right now. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you when I can. Thanks."_

"John! John, this is Sherlock!" Sherlock practically yelled into the phone. "Look, I'm so sorry I never wrote back to you, but I'm all right. I'm fine." He took a deep breath. "Text me when you get this. I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked at Jim, who had cocked his head and was looking at him inquisitively. "You didn't tell him you were coming here?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No!" he scoffed. "No, why would I?"

Jim shrugged. "Was that the phone call you were expecting?"

"No, that…that was for a case. I didn't get it."

Jim smiled. "Good! Then you have no reason to turn me down. Come on, I'll buy. _And_ I'll even let you pick where we go."

**/break\**

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed when Angelo approached their table-he had hoped that the man wouldn't be working so early in the day.

He forced a small smile and looked up at the ex-convict. "Good morning, Angelo."

"Good morning," Angelo said, looking from Jim to Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows and grinned slyly at the detective. "Why, Sherlock! Two dates in as many weeks! I'm proud of you."

Sherlock shook his head and held up his hand, halting Angelo's assumptions. "No, this-it isn't a date."

"He's still in denial," Jim said mischievously. He reached across the table and pat Sherlock's hand. "After all, we did just meet last night."

Angelo chuckled and handed them both menus. "You know the routine, Sherlock-any you want, free."

"Thank you," Sherlock said as Angelo left to greet other customers. Jim smirked at him.

"You knew he was going to do that!" he said. "That's why you wanted to come here, because you didn't want me to pay for you, because then it really _would _be a date!"

Sherlock snickered and shook his head. "I had no idea he would be here," he said honestly. "I happen to like their food. And we didn't just meet last night."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Our first encounter doesn't count. Once you outed me to my girlfriend, the whole situation was just…awkward."

"You need to break it off with her."

Jim crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. "How about this. I'll dump her if you'll go out with me."

To Jim's surprise, Sherlock laughed. "Please. What is there for me in a bargain like that?"

Jim shrugged. "Well, you could keep using me to replace John."

Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes, and John waved his hand. "Oh, don't look so shocked. I know that's what you were doing last night. I know that's what you were doing last night. And I'll be honest, Sherlock, because I think honesty is the foundation of any relationship, but I don't think he's much competition for me. What is it about him that you like? His intelligence? Not to sound conceited, but I was at the top of my class. His sense of humor? Again, not to brag, but mine is _killer_. His rough and buff military physique? I work out two hours a day. What am I missing?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I couldn't tell you. I don't know myself what it is about him that I find so irresistible."

**Thanks for reading, reviews = love (and faster updates lol!)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi :) For some reason, I'm not too thrilled with this chapter. Maybe it just seems boring after that steamy scene from four, lol. Anyway, this chapter is from Jim's POV a litlte bit, but also from Sherlock's. I think the interaction between Sherlock and John ended up really good, but Jim's stuff, I'm not so sure. If you're familiar with the canon, you'll recognize some stuff-Sebastian Moran, in particular. In this story, as you'll find out, they're childhood friends, so Moran can get away with things that no other minions of Jim's can. Anyway, thank you for reading, read and review, all that good stuff :) To everyone that has reviewed thus far, you have no idea how much I appreciate it, so thank you very very much!**

Breakfast was, Jim decided, a complete success. He'd made a point to let Sherlock do most of the talking, which was a challenge at first, since Sherlock didn't seem inclined to say much at all, but with Jim's prodding, and his asking about all of the detective's favorite subjects, Sherlock had opened up. Most of the questions he asked he already knew the answers to-you don't become a world-class criminal by being ignorant.

The taxi dropped Sherlock off at 221B Baker Street, and Jim had smirked when he saw that Sherlock was all but running up to the door, unlocked it as fast as his shaking hands could allow, and then plunged inside.

_You pathetic fool, _Jim thought with a smirk._ Letting yourself fall in love. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Surely you know that it can only end badly._

"So," the driver said, glancing at Jim in the rearview mirror. "How was it?"

Jim shrugged with a sigh. "Fine."

"That's it? _Fine_?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yes. Fine. _Just_ fine. I didn't expect him to be much of a thrill on our first date."

"Did you get him to talk about the bombings?"

Jim shook his head and crossed his right leg over his left. "He didn't say much of them, but he did check the phone to see if the fifth message had been sent." He yawned and leaned against the window, his eyes closed. "God, I slept awful. I want a new mattress on that bed before I go back."

The driver laughed. "Do you think he suspected?"

"Of course not. He wouldn't know what to expect. He hasn't even figured out what I am, much less who."

The taxi pulled into a long, winding driveway, lined with tall pine trees on either side. A tall iron gate closed behind them. In the distance, a large, four-story house could be seen, white, with large windows, some of which went from the ground floor to the first.

"Are you going to give him another case?"

Slowly, Jim shook his head. "No, I don't think I will…it'll be much more fun to see him drive himself to insanity while he waits. How was I supposed to know he'd call me? Even criminal masterminds can't be prepared for every possible event."

The cab came to a stop, and Jim's door was opened by a young man with blonde hair wearing a tuxedo. "Welcome back, Sir."

"Thank you," Jim said as he crawled out of the car. He walked over to the driver's window and, crossing his arms on the door, leaned in. "I need you back here tonight, Seb. Nine-ish."

The driver nodded. "I'll be here."

Jim reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, then pulled out ten fifty-pound notes and handed them to the driver. "For my mattress. Keep the rest. Buy Mrs. Moran something nice."

As he walked up the steps to the front door, he told the blonde man, "Billy, lay out my Robert Graham shirt and my one-eighty-ones. And my black Steve Madden's. I've got some business to check on and then I'll be up."

"Yes, Sir."

When the butler had disappeared upstairs, Jim turned to the left and walked into the first room. It was his library; the walls were lined with books about all subjects-history, chemistry, politics, mathematics, philosophy, law, linguistics, biology, geography, novels. He closed the door, locking it behind him, and then walked over to the regal cherry oak desk that sat in the center of the room. He sat down in the black leather chair and reached out his right hand, placing it on the smooth, square tray that sat on the desk in front of a large monitor. The pad began to glow a faint shade of green, which moved up and down the pad, and then a female voice said, _"Authentication recognized. Please enter password."_

Jim pulled the keyboard shelf and punched in his 12-digit password, containing numbers, characters, and letters. The computer hummed to life.

"Call Blake Williamson," Jim said, and then the sound of a phone ringing filled the room. He pulled out a pair of headphones from the drawer to his right and plugged them into the computer, then pushed them into his ears.

"_Hey, boss. What can I do for you?" _On the computer monitor, a webcam viewer had been activated, one-way only. A slim, muscular black man with short black hair could be seen, sitting in a dark room.

**What is the status of your current shipment?, **Jim typed. **Will it be on time?**

"_Yeah, it'll be on time. It just entered international waters. You were right; it was smooth sailing from the beginning. What I want to know is how you dealt with-"_

**Stop asking questions. I want you to also send me a shipment of concentrated liquid cocaine. Five-thousand milliliters should be sufficient.**

Jim could tell that Williamson wanted to inquire further, who the shipment was for, why he needed it, but, to his credit, he kept his mouth shut and only nodded.

"_Sure thing. When do you want it?"_

**Now. **

**/break\**

Sherlock ran up the steps of 221B Baker Street and flung the door open. "John!"

The flat looked exactly as it had when Sherlock had left last night. Coffee mugs on every visible table, books thrown about everywhere, scarves and socks hanging wherever there was space available.

The only thing missing was John.

"John?" Sherlock said timidly. "John, are you here?"

Nothing. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and dialed his friend's number. It had rung only once before Sherlock heard the familiar sound coming from the kitchen. He flipped his phone shut and sprinted towards the kitchen. "John?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the sight before him. John had pushed Sherlock's chemistry set to the other side of the table and was sitting with his arms crossed on the table, his head laying on top of them. His shoulders moved up and down slowly with each breath, and Sherlock's keen hearing could make out his soft snores.

_He fell asleep here waiting for you. I hope you're happy. You've kept him up all night worried sick. _

Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to shake the guilty thoughts out of it. He walked back into the living room and returned with an olive, crocheted afghan. He gently draped it over John's shoulders, and let his hands rest on them for a few seconds longer. His thoughts drifted back to the previous night, and, more specifically, to things he had wanted to say to John. _I love you, John. Anything for you, John. I love you. I love you. _

_Why couldn't it have been you?_

Sherlock finally let his hands drop off John's shoulders, then he went into the living room. The unopened newspaper was sitting on John's desk, and he picked it up before settling into his chair. Nothing of interest on the front page. Nor the second, nor the third. No more bombings, no more hostages. At least, none that have yet been documented. Sherlock pulled the pink phone out of his pocket and set it on the nightstand next to him. Nothing. Where _is_ he? Who is the fifth victim going to be? _Where_ will they be? He racked his brain trying to come up with something they had in common. A professional woman in her thirties, a university student, an elderly blind woman, and a young boy-they were picked at random.

"Where the _hell _were you?"

Sherlock looked up. John was standing in the kitchen archway, the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, with his arms crossed and a stern look on his face.

"Do you realize that I stayed up all night waiting for you to answer me? I was-" he lifted his hand and Sherlock saw that he was holding his pointer finger and thumb less than an inch apart- "_this_ close to calling Lestrade. Or your brother. Or both." He dropped his arm and tucked it into his other one, and his frown deepened. "Where _were _you?"

Sherlock folded the newspaper shut with as much stoicism as he could muster. "Sorry," he mumbled as he stood. He dropped the paper onto his chair. "I was out thinking and must've lost track of the time."

John snorted. "Oh, well that just makes everything all right then. You lost track of the time. No big deal."

Sherlock cocked his head, eyes narrowed. "What's the problem? It's not the first time I've been out without you knowing where I'm at."

"The problem, Sherlock," John said, stepping closer to his flat mate, "is that there is someone out there who is trying to get to you. And when I don't hear from you all night, what do you think I'm going to think has happened?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You shouldn't jump to conclusions like that."

"I can't help it." John reached up and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "I took one of your sleeping pills, by the way. Is there any particular reason that you have sleeping pills _and_ caffeine pills?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I should think the reasons were self-explanatory."

"Uh-huh. And the appetite suppressors? Trying to slim down a bit?"

"Well, who isn't?" Sherlock retorted sarcastically. "They're for my work. It's much easier to be discreet when your stomach is growling loudly enough for everyone in London to hear."

"I see. Or you could try, you know, eating." When Sherlock didn't respond, John sighed in defeat. "I'm guessing you didn't hear from our friend."

"You guess correctly," Sherlock said, a small smile ghosting over his face. "Now if you'll excuse me, John, I'm due for a shower."

After running upstairs to grab his pajama pants, Sherlock found himself enjoying the feeling of cool water running over his pale body. He squirted shampoo into his hand and lathered it into his hair. He smelled terrible. Last night he had sweat buckets. He hated to admit it, but Jim had been good-_very_ good. And, to Sherlock's surprise, he had been a decent conversationalist. The man was more intelligent than Sherlock had initially thought; in fact, he served on the board of directors for the math department at his school, Durham University. And he _definitely _wasn't as clumsy as he'd made himself out to be on their first meeting. If anything, Jim held himself with a certain air of dignity, unfitting for a man working a mediocre job and living in such a horrid flat.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he rinsed his hair and listened. The hiss of the water sounded like he had last night, hissing in pleasure, the sound of shampoo being forced to the ground, the sound of knocking at the door and John calling his name-

What?

Sherlock turned the water off and hurriedly wrapped a towel around his waist. He unlocked the bathroom door and jerked it open to see John standing on the other side, eyes wide, with the pink phone in his outstretched hand.

"He's calling."

A broad grin cracked out on the detective's face, and he took the ringing phone from John and held it up to his ear. "It's about time."

"_Ha, ha. Why so impatient? Aren't you still riding the high I gave you?"_

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and felt his heart speed up. This voice wasn't like the others. It was a man, young from the sound of it, but he didn't sound nervous or afraid at all. In fact, he sounded a little…bored.

"This victim is different from the others. He's not frightened."

"…_I don't think I'd call him a victim, Sherlock. He works for me, you see, but it was his own decision. But then again, he didn't have much of a choice."_

Sherlock licked his cracked lips. "So if he's not the final victim, why are you calling me? What do you want?"

"_Please, Sherlock. I've already told you-because I'm bored. You, though, apparently are not."_

"What do you mean?" Sherlock risked a glance at John, who was watching Sherlock intently. No doubt he was as puzzled at the conversation as the detective.

Another forced laugh. _"Well. I _could_ tell you, but why tell you when I should show you?"_

The line went blank. Sherlock barely had enough time to move the phone away from his ear when it beeped, signaling that he had a text message. He looked at it and saw that it was a picture of Jim, wearing what he'd been wearing last night and this morning. The photo must've been taken while Sherlock was with him. It was hard to tell where it was at; the lighting was off and it was zoomed it so that Jim's face took up most of the frame, but it was undoubtedly him.

John had leaned his head so he was staring at the phone. "Isn't that the guy from the hospital?"

"Jim. Yes."

"Why did they send you a picture of him?"

Sherlock shook his head. His heart was racing-he was excited, and maybe, just maybe, a tad bit afraid for the blithe, intelligent man he had spent the night with.

"I don't know."

**/break\**

Billy handed the phone back to Jim with a smile. "Here you go, Sir. So who was that guy?"

Jim glared at him. "Now, that doesn't really concern you, does it?" He turned his back to hit butler and pulled out the his top-right dresser drawer. Underneath his folded shirts was a miniature silver revolver. He pulled it out and pointed it at the man.

"W-Wait, Sir! What are you doing? I-I only did what you told me to, I-"

"Yes," Jim said calmly, "and you did an admirable job. However, I can't have you asking questions."

"I'll keep my mouth shut, I swear, I-"

_Bam!_

Jim pushed the number one on the phone and waited for it to dial, as the lifeless body of his young butler crumpled to the floor. Again, he only had to wait until the first ring for Moran to pick up.

"_Hey, I just got your mattress. It's-"_

"Shut up," Jim snarled. "I just shot Billy. I need you to get me another butler. You know my requirements."

"_Uh…yeah, Boss, sure. I'll take care of everything."_

"I've got some meetings that will take up the rest of my day. I want my room spotless by the time I get back. And I've got a shipment of liquid concentrated cocaine arriving tonight; text me when it gets here, do you understand?"

"_Yeah, I understand. See you tonight."_

Jim flipped his phone shut and smirked. "Soon, Sherlock Holmes. Soon, you'll understand what I mean."


	6. Chapter 6

**So I'm gonna apologize again for chapter five...it wasn't bad, per se, but it wasn't good...lol. I just wasn't very proud of it. This chapter though, is hot! I love it! It's got a lot of Jim in it, Sherlock/John interaction, and two steamy scenes. Oddly enough, one's at the very beginning, and one's at the very end. Thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing. :)**

By dinnertime the next day, Jim was furious. His new butler was simply terrible, a complete idiot and klutz, and Moran was too busy to get him another new one because he was at the hospital with his wife waiting for their first child to be born. His shipment of cocaine hadn't arrived last night; instead, it showed up at four a.m. this morning. His counterfeiting team based in Birmingham had been arrested.

And on top of all that, Sherlock hadn't called him.

_What's the matter, dear?_ Jim asked himself as he wiped the screen of his phone with his phone. _Afraid you might have actually enjoyed your time with little old Jim?_ He chuckled. _You're one to talk. He may have enjoyed it, but you fucking _loved_ it._

Thinking about their experience was getting Jim hard. He clenched his phone and used the other to rub the crotch of his jeans. _I expected you to be an intellectual treat, Sherlock .An equal. An arch-enemy. I _never_ expected you to be such a superior lover as well. Is it even possible for you to do something averagely? _Jim, still using only one hand, pulled apart the button of his jeans, then slowly pulled down the zipper. _I still can't believe you actually _called! _I was going to use it to torment you…I was right under your nose, and you never even knew it! But now…now…_-he hissed in pleasure as his hand came into direct contact with his cock-_now, I can have so much more fun._

He came quicker than he ever had in his life, a combination of the physical and mental stimulation that his encounter with Sherlock Holmes had given him. As he regained his composure, slouched in his chair, his hand drenched in his own seed, he smiled.

_We were made for each other, Sherlock._

**/break\**

_We were made for each other, Sherlock_. The words swirled around the detective's mind. _It's like he read my thoughts_, he realized. _I was thinking the exact thing…we both get bored. We both need stimulation. We both love the thrill of danger, the risk of defeat. Neither of us seem to have much regard for others, or even for ourselves._

John was at work, but Sherlock didn't care. Not as much as he normally did, at least. He was consumed with thoughts of Moriarty, and even a few of his new experiment, Jim. _He was good. _Very _good. Better than I was expecting. And he's smart. Funny. Charismatic. He's not John, but he may well be a suitable substitute. _

Sherlock was tempted to text Jim. Not to meet up again-no, of course not for _that_-but to find out if he was alive. _Why did he send me a picture of him? To taunt me? Show me that they know where I was that night?_

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes. "So they know where I was," he said to his skull, sitting on the fireplace mantel. "Why does that matter? The only person who would even give a damn would be John. Oh, and Molly." He rolled his eyes. "And probably Mycroft. But what does that _matter?_ Were they threatening to hurt him?" Sherlock stood and started pacing the length of the living room. "Because, frankly, if that's it, I don't care. He'll have to do better than threaten my _one_ one-night stand."

_Maybe he knows about John._

The thought hit him like a knife to his chest, and he returned to his chair, his breath coming out in quivering gasps. "That's…impossible." _No one knows how I feel about John. Except…_

_Jim._

Sherlock racked his brain for anything, no matter how small, that could be of relevance. Why would anyone care that was in love with John? Blackmail, yes. A weakness, yes. But these were nothing new; anyway who knew Sherlock knew that John was his only friend. Would the fact that his feelings went deeper than friendship really make _that_ much of a difference?

"It's nothing," Sherlock said decidedly. "Nothing. He don't know, and even if he does, it doesn't matter. He just wanted to show me that his people watching me, not that I wasn't already aware of that."

The rest of Sherlock's day passed without anything too exciting happening. When John got home, Sherlock saw that he'd brought take-out, and the two ate dinner in relative silence. Sherlock didn't eat much, but due to John's intense staring and opening his mouth to protest every time Sherlock went to stand, he got down about half a plateful.

After dinner, John did the dishes while Sherlock sat on the couch, his hands arched under his chin. He had about drifted away from reality and into the depths of his mind when he heard John say, as if from a great distance, "Jeopardy?"

Ah. The American trivia game. Sherlock always lost terribly, and John enjoyed every second of it. But, as much as Sherlock hated to be humiliated, he loved seeing John happy.

The detective nodded. "All right."

As usual, Sherlock did awful. On the rare occasion that he would get a crime or chemistry-related question he excelled, and there were some tidbits that he just happened to know, but for the most part, even the most basic answers were unknown to him.

"Which of the American states is known as 'the gem state'?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Why would anyone need to know that? Seriously, John, what use could that be to anyone?"

John shrugged. "I'm sure it's common knowledge to Americans." He smirked. "So, does that mean you forfeit the question? That'll make me the victor."

"Wow, what a change from the routine," Sherlock said sarcastically, but chuckled. "It's not fair. You pick this game because you know I'm terrible at it."

"Just like you took me to Angelo's during A Study in Pink because you knew our food would be free."

_Jim said that, too_, Sherlock recalled. What else had he said…oh, _you brought me here because you knew we wouldn't have to pay, so there's no way that it could be a date. _Something along those lines.

Sherlock sighed. Everything was making him think about Jim. _Why am I so fascinated with him? I love _John_. This man, he means nothing to me!_

_Maybe you like him because he _is_ John._

Sherlock wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion at his own thought. _What?_

_You can't have John, the real John, so you transfer his attributes and your feelings onto Jim, because Jim will let you do and say whatever you want to. It's a win-win situation. Jim's happy, John's happy, you're happy. Well. As happy as is possible for you._

Sherlock shook his head, this wasn't like him to talk to himself. That's _why_ he had his skull, that's _why_ he enjoyed John coming on his cases with him. But he can't talk to John about this, and can't talk to the skull while John was at home, so who else was there?

**/break\**

The black phone sitting on the table next to Jim vibrated once. Grinning, he picked it up. He'd gotten a text message that said, _Are you busy?_

Smirking, he wrote back. _Not if you're asking me out_.

"Who's that?" Moran asked after taking a long drink of his wine. "Is it him?"

Jim nodded and waved the phone for emphasis. "This phone is the number I gave to him."

"And the hospital girl?"

"No, she's on one of the other lines. This phone is for him _only_."

Moran chuckled. "Aren't you afraid you'll get them mixed up? Send monetary offers to him, or something to the girl telling her how great it felt to fuck her in the ass? _Ha!_ I'd love to see the look on your face when you got her response."

"Oh, shut up," Jim snarled. He stood up and threw his napkin onto his plate of barely-touched food. "You know I'd never be so careless to let that happen." _Not to mention, I wasn't the one doing the fucking. _This fact surprised him. He'd had no real intention of letting Sherlock be on top of him, but it'd just kind of happened. He'd expected to be a replacement for John Watson, but only in companionship, not physical intimacy.

Not that he was complaining, really. He'd get his chance to be on top.

His phone buzzed again. _Out, not exactly. Your place?_

_Sure_, Jim responded. _Give me some time to tidy it up though. How's eight o'clock?_

Sherlock responded before Jim had even closed his phone. _Perfect._

"You're meeting him?" Moran asked, his eyes following Jim as he walked over to the large window and, gazing at his reflection, removed his tie.

"I am," Jim answered. "And you're going to take me. Let's go, I need to make sure none of your idiots left anything suspicious when they moved my mattress."

"We didn't," Moran said, rolling his eyes. Despite his obvious annoyance, he stood up and downed the last of his wine. "I'm still not sure this is a good idea."

Jim clenched his teeth and hissed in a tight breath of air. "Can't say that I recall asking your opinion."

"Jim-"

"No!" Jim shouted, angrily. He spun around and held out a hand, motioning for Moran to shut up. "Stop, just, _stop_. You're always questioning me, doubting me, and I'm getting sick of it! Now, stop being such a mother hen and let me do my goddamn job!" He glared at Moran, expression softened when he saw his chief of staff cross his arms in disappointment at his outburst. "Seb, I didn't get where I am today by being careless, or by taking unnecessary risks. You know that, you've been with me every step of the way! So, please, just, let me be."

While Moran went and pulled the car around, Jim ran upstairs and changed out of his Ben Sherman ensemble of a blue and white horizontally-striped sweater and black slacks and put on a vintage white t-shirt, the British flag proudly displayed on the front, and a pair of torn jeans. He took off his shiny leather shoes and replaced them with worn sneakers, sneakers he'd had since secondary school. The last thing he put on a was a maroon and black-striped zip-up hoodie.

_I hate these clothes_, Jim thought as he walked outside and into the awaiting jet-black Maserati. Moran wolf-whistled at him as he crawled into the back seat.

"Well, don't you look _adorable_?"

"Don't make me shoot you, Seb."

Moran laughed as he began to turn the car out of the driveway. "You wouldn't. You'd go crazy without me. Surrounding by all these bungling idiots, having no one to bounce ideas off of, having no one to consult about your most recent evil scheme-"

"Please," Jim interrupted, rolling his eyes. "You are _hardly _an intellectual equal. Sherlock's the only person I've ever met who-"

"Oh, on a first-name basis with him now, are you?"

Jim frowned. "Well, it is his name. Now, tonight I'm expecting a status report from-"

"Antonia Russo concerning the blackmail on the Counsel of Ministers members."

"Yes, but also-"

"Blake Williamson, to find out why the hell your other order didn't arrive with the one that came in this morning."

"Yeah, and-"

"What, you think that Egyptian guy's come up with enough recruits already? What was his name?"

"Nassor. And no, not him; I communicated with him earlier today. I'm expecting a call from Bart's. Jim has been a no-show every day so far this week. Tonight should be the night they call me to give me the sack. It's a shame, I enjoyed the extra income."

Moran snorted. "Extra income? You were there less than two weeks, didn't even make a thousand quid!"

Jim shrugged. "Still, it was a distraction. An incredibly boring one, of course, but better than nothing."

The rest of the ride contained no talk of business; instead, the two spoke of their university professors, the time they'd gone swimming in the Thames in October and had both been out of school all the next week with pneumonia, the squirrel that they'd found and had kept in the Moran's garage for a week before it escaped.

"It was your fault," Jim told the man. "_You _forgot to put the lid back on the box."

Moran laughed. "Yeah, yeah. I've been hearing that for over twenty years now, I get it. The damn squirrel escaped because of me. Sorry." The Maserati came to a sudden halt. "We're here, so you can get out and stop blaming me for all your life's troubles."

"It's about time," Jim said, smirking as he climbed out of the car. He looked at the apartment complex and sighed. "I really hate it here, Sebastian. This place is disgusting."

"Hey," Moran said, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence, "_you _picked it."

"Because I didn't think he'd actually call!" Jim admitted. "This was just a precaution. Just in case."

"I thought you got this to bring the girl back here?"

Jim shrugged. "Yeah, well, there was that, but I only got involved with her to meet him, so, really, it is just for him." He leaned against Moran's window. "I'll text you when I need to be picked up. I'm leaving you in charge tonight, all right? No matter what happens, leave me out of it."

Moran nodded. "You got it, boss." He smirked. "Have fun."

**/break\**

Moran had been right; he and his cronies left nothing suspicious behind with them. The place looked exactly as it had two days prior, but with a bigger, and better, mattress. Jim looked at his watch; it was only seven thirty, so he amused himself for the next half-hour with math problems and a cup of weak coffee.

At five minutes to eight, he dropped his pencil and took a few deep breaths. _All right, James. Time to forget everything you know about being a criminal mastermind. You're about to have your second date with Sherlock Holmes. He's all you can think about. You're trying to get him to fall in love with you, even though he's already stricken by that Doctor Watson fellow. _He smiled, not a kind smile, but an evil, maniacal smirk. _You poor dear. If only you knew you were telling your mortal enemy your only weakness. If only you knew that the man you're starting to put your faith into is the one who's going to destroy you._

Jim zipped up his hoodie and went outside, just in time to see Sherlock getting out of his taxi. When Sherlock locked eyes with him, Jim smiled.

"I knew you'd be back," he said, holding the door open for the detective.

"And here I thought I was the detective," Sherlock muttered as he walked inside.

Jim laughed sheepishly. "Well, so, how have you been? All right?"

Sherlock nodded as he followed Jim to his room. "As good as can be expected."

Nonchalantly, Jim linked arms with Sherlock as they walked down the dimly-lit hallway. "Did you ever get that phone call?"

"Hmm?"

"The one you were expecting. About your case."

"Oh," Sherlock said softly, and Jim could tell right away that he had hoped the subject wouldn't come up. "No, I haven't."

_Liar._

"Sorry to hear that," Jim said sweetly as he unlocked his door and pushed it open. He put both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and gently led him inside, kicking the door closed behind them. He leaned up and whispered in Sherlock's ear, "Welcome back."

The words had barely left his mouth when Sherlock turned his head, his curly hair brushing against Jim's lips and nose, and caught the other man's lips against his own. Jim moaned, both in pleasure and surprise, as he felt Sherlock push his tongue in between his lips, felt Sherlock holding his face in his strong, thin hands, felt Sherlock's chest pressing against his own.

Jim wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and pulled him in for a tighter embrace. _Fuck_, the man was wearing so many clothes. His long, wool coat, a blazer, then a shirt underneath. With one hand remaining on Sherlock's waist, he snaked the other one the detective's shoulder and started pulling on the coat. Sherlock immediately got the hint and shrugged it off, throwing it into the corner, not breaking the kiss for an instant.

Jim was hard already and he knew from the firm object pressing against his thigh that Sherlock was, too. He slid his hands inside Sherlock's blazer, then pushed them into the back of his trousers and began squeezing and groping his arse.

"_John!"_ Jim heard Sherlock say, though it had been barely discernable, Sherlock had exhaled forcefully, and it was like the name came as an afterthought, an accident, a Freudian slip.

Jim chuckled and pulled his hands out from Sherlock's trousers and began running fingers through the man's curly hair instead. He turned his head and kissed Sherlock's ear. "Jim, dear. My name is Jim."

Sherlock ignored him, if he'd even heard him, that is. He was busy kissing and biting Jim's neck and shoulder. His hands moved from Jim's face to the hoodie's zipper, and with one quick motion he'd unzipped it and was ripping it off Jim's body. Now, only the t-shirt was keeping him from Jim's bare skin.

_No time for _that_, _he thought, and, instead of pulling it above John's head, grabbed at the front and back of the neck hole and tugged. The shirt didn't put up much of a fight, and was soon being ripped in half, to the extent that Sherlock dropped it and let it fall of Jim and onto the ground. He buried his face in the crook of Jim's neck and shoulder again and resumed marking him.

"Oh, _fuck, _Sherlock," Jim panted, rubbing his crotch against Sherlock's. "You're…you're incredible. I…oh, _god!…_I haven't been able to…to…to stop thinking about you…"

_Did you mean to tell him that?_ Jim asked himself, as his hands moved to Sherlock's crotch on their own accord. He undid the detective's trousers and pulled his underwear down just far enough so that his cock was sticking out. Then, he followed suit on himself and inched closer to Sherlock so their cocks were brushing against each other.

Sherlock hissed at the contact and bucked his pelvis against Jim's. . Encouraged by the subconscious action, Jim took both of their cocks in his hand and pumped them furiously, as quickly as he could. He heard Sherlock whimper, and turned his head to kiss the taller man's pale cheek.

"_God," _Jim growled. "Sherlock…Sherlock, darling, are you close?"

He felt Sherlock nod against his shoulder, heard him mumble 'very', before he resumed sucking on Jim's collarbone. Only a few pumps later and both men rolled their heads black in pleasure, sweat dripping from their hair, their chests rapidly moving up and down with their short breaths. Jim dropped their drooping cocks and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock raised his head, and Jim instantly rested his forehead against the detective's. "Incredible," he said softly.

Sherlock grinned, just for a split-second. He cocked his head to rub against Jim's nose with his own. "Me neither," he told Jim.

Jim smiled at the ingenuous act Sherlock was performing on him, and asked, "What?"

"You said you haven't been able to stop thinking about me." Sherlock pressed a gentle, but firm, kiss to Jim's lips. "I find that I've been having the same problem."

**DUM DUM DUM! Is Sherlock actually falling for Jim? You'll have to wait and find out :) As always, review make me type faster, so keep them coming if you feel so inclined, they are greatly appreciated! **


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay so this is the second time I posted chapter seven, I put it up and then realized that I put the version up that hadn't been edited. And then I realized that the newer version I put up had only been partially edited, so, if you see the name John when it should be Jim, sorry about that, folks, I tried to catch them all! As always, thank you very much for reading and reviewing the earlier chapters, and I hope you feel inclined to do the same with this one! Especially because I'm afraid that I'm getting Jim and/or Sherlock out of character, and, as their relationship is, after this chapter, going to be totally different than it has been, I want to make sure that doesn't happen. Thanks so much!**

"Breakfast?"

The two men were laying on Jim's bed; Jim was sitting up straight, his back against the wall and his arms around Sherlock. Jim smiled and shook his head sadly "Love to, my dear, but some of us actually have to go to boring nine to five jobs to pay the bills." He winked at Sherlock. "We can't all chase series killers and master blackmailers all day."

Sherlock chuckled. "If that's what you think I do, you've been sadly misinformed. For London being such a happening city, it can be rather dull."

Jim cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a bad thing." _Dull? He calls my work _dull_?_

"It is when you rely on it for your bread and butter. After all," he said with a smirk, "we can't all have boring nine to five jobs."

They giggled and Sherlock felt Jim tighten his grip around him. Gently, Sherlock brought one of the man's hands up to his lips and pressed a firm kiss to the back of it. "Maybe I'll stop by Bart's around lunchtime, then."

Jim kissed Sherlock's temple. "As lovely as that would be," he whispered into the detective's ear, "I'm afraid I already told my boss that I'd take her out."

_I wonder what he did about Molly, _Sherlock thought. _But don't ask. He told you that if he broke it off with Molly he'd expect you to date him. Don't commit to that. After all, there's always the chance that John will suddenly realize he's madly in love with you. _This thought made Sherlock chuckle.

"What?" Jim asked, smiling. "What are you laughing at?"

"N-Nothing, just-just something John did."

"Ah," Jim said. He didn't bother to hide the disappointment in his voice. "How's Johnny boy doing these days?"

Sherlock shrugged against Jim's chest. "Fine." He snorted. "As in-a-relationship as ever."

"Now, now," Jim said, brushing Sherlock's hair away from his forehead. "You remember what I told you the first time we were together? He doesn't know what he's missing, Sherlock. You're breathtaking. Nothing at all like Molly described you."

"Oh?"

Jim shook his head. "No. She always made you sound like such a prick. She said you were rude to everyone, no matter who they were, and that you didn't give a damn about the rules if you thought you were right about something."

"Huh," Sherlock sighed. "Well, maybe you just bring out the best in me."

**/break\**

When Sherlock got home, the first thing he did was text John and ask him if he'd like to lunch. The response was almost immediate.

_Of course. Where?_

I'll be in the lab at Bart's, Sherlock wrote back. Just pick me up when it's good for you.

_You're just full of surprises, aren't you? _he asked himself. _First, you make a true friend, something you never thought you'd do in your life. Then, you meet someone that you invite to lunch before you invite said friend. _Two_ friends? Is that even possible?_

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and sighed. _What am I doing? Jim's nice, but he's not John. I love _John_. Jim is just…he*'s just a distraction. You need to stop toying with him, Sherlock. It's cruel. Which, granted, you've never cared about before, but maybe he would be a good place to start. John would certainly call it a change for the better._

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Sherlock changed clothes and caught a cab. He'd brought the severed head with him, one so that he could test his findings, and two so he could return it the morgue. As he walked through the front door, he contemplated going upstairs to visit Jim, but he immediately decided against it. _I don't want to look _that _desperate. And, I don't think he'd appreciate me bringing a head. Maybe flowers, or, cookies, or something equally ridiculous._

He went to the morgue first and dropped off the head, then walked down the familiar staircase leading into the basement, where the lab was located.

"Now then," he said, his voice sounding louder than it actually was in the empty lab, "what experiment should I perform…blood acidity in different body parts? At various intervals before and after death?

A snort of laugher made him flinch and spin around to look at the door. Jim was leaning against the door, a wide smile on his face, his arms crossed. He was wearing light khaki pants, into which was tucked a crisp maroon shirt with black stripes, the sleeves rolled up to Jim's elbows. A black scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. "I doubt you need to research any of that. After all," he said, uncrossing his arms and letting them sway lightly at his sides as he walked towards Sherlock, "you didn't get labeled as a genius for not knowing about something as simple as the alkalinity of blood."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and tried to keep an amused smile from turning up his lips. "Are you implying that I'm not a genius?"

Jim chuckled again. "No," he said, now only two feet from Sherlock. "I'm saying that you already know everything there is to know about it. So, why perform the tests?"

Sherlock couldn't contain his smirk anymore. He was a sucker for flattery, and Jim was only too happy to give it. "I enjoy them," he admitted. "It's routine, yet enlightening. You might even say it's my idea of…fun."

"Ah," Jim said with a nod of understanding. He stepped closer to Sherlock. "I know _other_ ways to have fun. They don't involve blood-" he paused and winked suggestively-"unless that's your thing, of course."

Sherlock stepped back. "I don't know if now is-" he stopped mid-sentence and squinted at the man standing before him. "How did you know I was here?"

Jim hesitated before answering-it was only for a split-second, and no one but Sherlock Holmes would've caught it. "I saw you when you were leaving the morgue," he explained. "I shouted at you, but, guess you didn't hear me."

"No, I didn't. I thought you worked upstairs?"

"I do. But, the coffee machine is on the ground floor." He smiled mischievously. "Is it your habit to interrogate everyone you associate with?"

Sherlock shook his head with a sly smile. "Only the ones I like."

They both snickered and Jim turned to put his elbows on the counter, looking up at Sherlock. "Well, my dear, if you won't let me rip your clothes off in this eerie, fluorescent lab, can I watch your experiments?"

Sherlock wheeled around his stool so he was facing Jim. "Shouldn't you be working?" he asked teasingly. While waiting for Jim's answer, he pulled open the counter drawers and retrieved three test tubes, knife, a beaker, and a Bunsen burner. "Will you reach into that drawer behind you and get the litmus paper?"

Jim reached into the door and retrieved the vile of paper slips. He held it out to Sherlock, but when the detective reached for it, he jerked his hand back. "Uh-uh. It'll cost you." Jim turned his head so that his right cheek was facing Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly but leaned forward and planted a firm kiss onto Jim's cheek. Jim smiled in satisfaction and dropped the vile into Sherlock's outstretched palm.

"Thank you."

Jim walked behind Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder, watching Sherlock slit his finger with the knife and squeeze blood into the test tube until it there was about three centimeters in it. Sherlock wiped his hand carelessly on his pants as he set to work with his other pulling a piece of litmus paper out of the tube.

"That looks painful."

Sherlock was aware, _very_ aware of how close Jim's lips were to his ear. With every word he spoke, his breath danced across Sherlock's neck. Sherlock shook his head. "People have suffered much more in the name of science."

"Yes," Jim purred in agreement. "And it's worth it to you?"

"Very much so," Sherlock said, nodding. "My work is everything to me. Without it, I'd go insane."

"I see," Jim murmured. Sherlock tried to keep a surprised flinch from twitching his face when Jim wrapped his arms around his waist and pressed his nose to his ear.

"And what about John?"

Sherlock licked his lips as Jim squeezed his waist tightly. "Jim-"

"Shh. Just answer my question."

Sherlock found himself squeezing the test tube containing his own blood tightly as Jim nuzzled his ear slowly, sensually. He could feel something hard and long prodding against the small of his back, and he felt his own groin stirring at the sensation. "John…he's just special."

"And what about me?"

Sherlock gasped when he felt Jim sliding his hands from his waist to caress his inner thighs, then his balls. He heard the sound of a zipper being unzipped, and didn't realize until Jim's hand came in contact with his bare cock that it was his own.

"You, Jim…you…oh, _Jim!"_

The detective felt Jim's mouth turn up into a smile against his ear. "Finally," Jim whispered. "I've got you crying out my name instead of his."

Jim continued to pump Sherlock's cock with one hand; the other was busy trailing up and down Sherlock's chest, playing with his nipples, trailing over his collarbones, clutching at his pale throat. His hips slowly flexing forwards and backwards, making his hard cock thrust against Sherlock's back.

Sherlock leaned his head back as he gasped and let his head rest against Jim's chest. Jim, smirking, leaned down and kissed the dark curls that adorned the sallow forehead. The gyration of his hips sped up, as did the hand that was sliding up and down Sherlock's cock. Both men gasped and sucked in as many short, ragged breaths as they could, and it was only a few minutes until they were past the point of now return.

"_Fuck_," Jim hissed in Sherlock's ear. "I'm gonna…I'm gonna come…in my pants…_fuck_, Sherlock, oh my God…"

Jim and Sherlock came simultaneously, both in their trousers. Between his and his partner's gasps, Jim heard another sound, the sound of glass shattering and of hissing. Both men were panting desperately, but, Jim noticed, Sherlock was also groaning. He took in a long, slow breath and spun Sherlock's stool around so they were facing each other.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nodded and jerked his head towards his hand. "I got a little _too_ excited."

Jim's gaze went from Sherlock's face to his hand, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. Sherlock's hand was dripping blood, trails of that seemed to go from the tips of his fingers down past his wrists. The fingers were curled and trembling.

"Christ," Jim said, quickly pulling the scarf off his shoulders and wrapping it gently around Sherlock's hand. "What the hell did you do?"

"I broke the test tube," Sherlock explained calmly. "Don't worry, a lot of it's the blood that was already in there."

"Still," Jim pressed, "you need to wash it. Here, I'll help you." He grabbed the crook of Sherlock's arm and began to pull.

Sherlock held up his uninjured hand and shook it. "No, no. I'm all right. I'm in a hospital, what do you think's going to happen?"-Jim smiled at this-"You need to get back upstairs; you've been gone for almost an hour. They're going to wonder what's happened to you."

Jim sighed. "You're right. As always." He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and pressed his lips against the other man's, almost simultaneously pushing his tongue into the detective's mouth. Sherlock reciprocated immediately.

They didn't have enough time to pull away from each other, they just didn't, when the door to the lab was pushed open and John strode inside, a relaxed grin etched onto his face. When he caught site of Sherlock and Jim, the grin immediately vanished, replaced by a deep frown.

"John!" Sherlock gasped. He put his hand on Jim's chest and pushed him away, then stood up and took a few steps towards his friend. "You're…you're earlier than I expected."

John glanced from Sherlock to Jim. "It's nearly eleven thirty. I sent you a text…seems you were too busy to check it."

_Shit_, Sherlock cursed tossing his head back to look at Jim. Jim looked like a deer caught in headlights; his eyes were wide and his breathing was quick. He looked back at John.

"John," Sherlock was rambling, "you remember Jim from the other day, right?"

"Of course," John said, smiling sarcastically. "Molly's boyfriend, right?"

Jim lowered his eyes to the floor nervously. "Well, um, not-not anymore." He looked up at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I-I had better be going."

"Right," Sherlock agreed curtly, his eyes not wavering from John's for a second.

"I'll see you later?"

Sherlock shrugged half-heartedly. "We'll see."

Jim nodded wordlessly and slid past John and left the room, leaving the two roommates staring at each other.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Sherlock asked. He stepped closer to John. "Where are we going to eat?"

John snorted in disbelief. "Seriously? That's it then?"

_Damn it, John, can't you just leave it be? I'm sorry, all right? _"John," he tried again, trying to sound as confused as possible, "I don't understand, what are you-"

"You called him, didn't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What business is that of yours?"

"None. It's none of my business. But it is Molly's."

"Molly's?"

"Yes, Sherlock!" John said, his voice nearing a shout. He sighed in exasperation. "You had to have known that this would break them up. You're the world's greatest detective, how could you not know something as basic as-"

"Look, it's not my fault he's gay."

John laughed, and it sounded almost maniacal. "Oh, that's right, you can't. And I suppose you also couldn't stop your fingers from dialing his number, or your voice from inviting him out to get off?"

"Why are you so upset?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.

_Please, please let it be jealously. Please, please, please._

"The girl adores you, Sherlock! She puts up with you being a bastard, she puts up with you insulting her, she goes out of her way to get you what you need and make sure you can use any damn thing in here that you want, and how do you repay her? You steal her boyfriend! Does she even know he's with you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have no idea. And I didn't _steal_ her boyfriend, John. The man's gay; it would've happened sooner or later!"

"So you took it upon yourself-"

Sherlock slammed his fist down on the counter. "Look, I didn't do anything wrong!" he yelled. "People break up, it happens, get over it!"

The look in John's eyes is one that Sherlock knew right away he would never forget, and it was one that he would never make John have again. "I see," John said softly. "So she's just another name on the long list of people that you use but don't really give a damn about. What about Jim, is he on there too? What about _me_?"

_Fuck, John. Why can't you see how much you mean to me? _His mind automatically reminded him, _look at the way you treat him. _

_It's not my fault! I can't think straight when I'm with him. He just…_Sherlock looked up to see John watching him expectantly. _What should I tell him? I can't tell him that I love him, especially now, he'd never speak to me again, and I couldn't bear that. _

"No, John," he finally said, so softly that he could barely hear his own words. "No, you're not."

Needless to say, the two didn't go to lunch. John texted Sherlock when he got off work:

_Going to Sarah's. I don't know when I'll be back._

Sherlock had written him back, saying, _I didn't mean to upset you_, but John hadn't responded. Sherlock hadn't expected him to, really, but he had still hoped. It was almost seven o'clock. He was back at Baker Street, sitting in his chair, and smoking his fourth cigarette. The nicotine patches weren't working-they weren't enough.

"Don't look at me like that," he told his skull, blowing the gray smoke out of his mouth as he spoke. "I've had a horrible day. Besides, John's not here to stop me, so why shouldn't I?"

**/break\**

**Your parents are both resident patients at Angel's Touch Nursing Home in Gargilesse. Rose and Vincent McCarthy. Your husband Jonathan is currently away on a business trip, and is staying in room two-hundred and twenty-seven at the Westin Excelsior, one-twenty-five Via Vittorio Veneto, Rome, Italy. Your infant son and daughter are both at your sister's, at-**

The woman on Jim's monitor could take no more. As he'd been typing, tears had begun to prick at the corner of her eyes; now, they were streaming down her face. "I'm sorry!" she shrieked. "It wasn't my fault! There was nothing I could've done-"

**I very much doubt that.**

"Please, believe me!" she begged. "Sir, please, I'll do anything. Don't hurt my family. Please."

The black phone in his pocket vibrated. Jim pulled it out eagerly. Sherlock would get his mind off this woman's incompetence.

_Can you come over_, the message said. He took his time in responding to Sherlock's text, only because he liked seeing the woman on the edge of her seat.

_Yes. Now? Tell me your address again?_

Jim chuckled to himself as he set his hands on the keyboard again. "221B Baker Street. As if I didn't already know that. Not only have I seen the outside of your home, Sherlock, but I've been inside it. I've seen your books, your chemistry set on the kitchen table, the skull you have sitting on your mantle…oh yes, I've seen it."

Sherlock wrote back to him, but Jim didn't read it; instead, he was writing another text to Moran.

_I'm going to Sherlock's tonight. You're going to drive me. And, send Smith and Mendoza to the sister's house and kill her. Leave the children to starve._

**Second chances are not something offered in this business, **he wrote to the woman. **Unfortunately, I have other responsibilities to attend to, so I have to cut this lovely conversation short.**

She seemed to look relieved for a moment, and Jim snickered at this, too.

**I think I'll dispose of your sister. After all, who, then, will watch after your children while you're…incapacitated?**

The last thing Jim heard as he shut off the computer was the woman's scream, followed by a gunshot, and then silence.

**/break\**

"Hi," Sherlock said as he pulled the door open and stood aside for Jim to enter. "I'm sorry about the mess. I wasn't exactly planning on having company, or else I would've tidied up a bit."

Jim smiled. "It's all right, after all you've seen where I live. I'm sure-" he stopped in mid-sentence as he glanced around the apartment. "My god," he said, his voice in awe, "this place-it's-it's _huge!"_ He walked into the living room excitedly, letting his eyes dart around. "You have a full-sized fridge, and a stove, and a sink? And-" he went into the kitchen and next down next to the dishwasher-"a _dishwasher! _You lucky bastard!"

Sherlock chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't have any of it if it weren't for John."

Jim tried to keep his smile glued onto his face. He walked over to Sherlock and stroked his cheek gently. "How did Johnny boy take the news?"

Sherlock leaned into Jim's touch and sighed. "Not well. He was furious at me. He said…he told me that I use everyone and don't give a damn about anyone."

"Hmm," Jim hummed sympathetically. "If only he knew."

"He can't know," Sherlock said adamantly. He turned away from Jim's hand. "He'd never speak to me again. He'd move out."

"It'd be his loss," Jim said helpfully.

Sherlock smirked and locked eyes with Jim. "Why are you so quick to stand up for me?" he asked. "You don't know anything about me. I don't know anything about you-not even your last name."

Jim smiles, and Sherlock knows instantly that something-_something_-isn't right.

"Sherlock, I think you know more about me than you realize. And I know more about you than you realize. See, that's another thing we have in common."

Sherlock tried to force a smile onto his face, but he knew Jim could tell he was faking it. He took a step back, only to see that Jim took one towards him. "_Another_ thing?" he repeated, trying to keep his voice under control.

"Yes," Jim said, closing the distance between them until Sherlock's back was against the olive-colored wall. "We both enjoy a good puzzle. We both don't give a damn what the rest of the world thinks of us. We're both loners and, up until a few days ago, we preferred it that way. We're both geniuses, and the creators and sole members of our chosen professions."

Sherlock felt his heart racing as Jim leaned in and forced a deep, rough kiss onto his lips. When Jim pulled away, he whispered, "It's like I've been trying to tell you…_we were made for each other, Sherlock._"

Sherlock's heart stopped.

_Moriarty_.

The last thing Sherlock felt was a hard, heavy blow delivered to the side of his head, and then darkness surrounded him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Okay, so this chapter took me longer to put up then I was expecting, and for that, I'm sorry! The updates are either going to be less frequent or shorter now that school is starting back up on Thursday, so, let me know: would you rather have somewhat-more-often, shorter updates, or rarer, longer updates? And keep in mind, when I say rare, I mean like, once every five days or longer; school sucks a lot out of me! This chapter is all Jim-Sherlock, but the next chapter Jim's only going to be in it a little bit, then it's going to be everyone's favorite, John and Sherlock! Okay, I know they're not everyone's, but they are really adorable together :) As always, I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Oh, speaking of which, there's a quote in here from the Doyle stories-see if you can find it!**

Sherlock's eyes snapped open when his body convulsed. He felt two strong arms grabbing at him, holding him. He was lying on his back, his knees bent upwards, and his head propped on something soft, but firm. He knew he was in a car, because he could feel the motor's vibrations rumbling through his thin body, and he could see through darkly-tinted windows the faint glow of street and building lights as they passed them.

"I told you to go slow!" he heard a man say, and, after a moment of fogginess, placed the voice as Jim's.

_Jim. Moriarty. I've been such a fool. _

"No," he heard another man say, a voice that he didn't recognize, "you told me to be careful. You _also_ told me to 'fucking hurry'. Make up your mind."

Sherlock's eyes had focused to the darkness of the car, and he could make out Jim's silhouette above him. That would make the firm thing that his head was propped up against Jim's leg, placing his head in the man's lap.

"You can't rattle him too much now," Jim was saying, and Sherlock could tell that he was smirking. "There'll be nothing left for me to do when we get him home."

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He wasn't going to sit here, helpless, in the hands of the one person who'd ever proved to be his equal. "I'm sure you'll think of something," he croaked, his voice raspy and weak.

He saw Jim's head tilt down towards him, and felt Jim's right hand be placed on his forehead, brushing his sweat-matted hair off his brow. "Well, well, well," Jim said, in a sing-song way. "Look who's awake. You will, of course, forgive me for hitting you, but I couldn't risk you knowing our location."

"You think I could?"

Jim scoffed. "Please, Sherlock. I know you've memorized every inch of our dear, dank, dark city. I'd be a fool to underestimate you."

"If you're not going to kill me, what do you want?"

"Now, hold on a second," Jim said innocently. "Who said that I wasn't going to kill you?"

Sherlock tried to sit up, to get out of the undignified, pathetic position he was in, but Jim wouldn't allow it. He pressed on Sherlock's shoulder, and the hand that had been on Sherlock's brow slid underneath his shoulder to hold him under the armpit. "If you wanted to kill me, you would've done it by now. Why else would you take me all the way to your home? Unless, of course, you're planning to torture me?"

Jim laughed, and Sherlock frowned. He really was getting sick of hearing it. It wasn't the innocent, carefree laugh of _Jim_, but the hysterical, criminal laugh of _Moriarty_.

"Maybe I just wanted to introduce you to my folks."

Sherlock, try as he might to resist it, felt his mouth curve up into a slight grin. He felt Jim sigh deeply at the sight of it.

"Oh, good. We finally got a smile out of you."

_John. What has he done with John?_

Sherlock opened his mouth to ask about his best friend, but stopped himself. _You can't let him know you're worried,_ he decided. _Even though you've already confessed your undying love for John-stupid move on your part-you can't let _him_ know that you're concerned over it. Stay cool, Sherlock_. "How far away is this place?" he asked instead.

Jim pulled his arms off of Sherlock and was texting on a silver phone, a different one than he'd used in Sherlock's presence.

_That phone was probably meant for me, and only me. _

"Very. Or maybe it's not. Maybe we're arriving now. Or maybe we've got hours to go." Jim grinned slyly. "Do you _really_ want to know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't matter. From what I've learned of you so far, everything you say is a lie. So, no, I don't really want to know."

Jim looked disappointed. "Now, now, Sherlock. Not _everything_ I told you was a lie." The criminal looked up from his hostage and addressed the driver. "The sister was quick and easy," he said. "They said she had forty-thousand in her bank account, they got that too."

The driver chuckled. "Seems like you got a double bonus, Jim."

_Jim. Not Moriarty. I wonder if…_

"Is he another casual acquaintance of yours?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows raising for only a split-second before dropping again. The motion made his head throb.

"Seb? Oh, God, no," Jim said, cackling as if the idea were the most ludicrous one he'd ever heard in his life. "A childhood friend turned chief-of-staff. I'm sure you've heard of him, Sherlock-Sebastian Moran. The second most dangerous man in London."

"That's his pet name for me," Moran teased, looking back at Jim with a snide grin.

"I see," Sherlock said curtly. "And the rest of your organization. Other friends of yours, perhaps?"

Jim shook his head. "Nope, Sebastian is the only friend I've got. Well, other than you, of course."

"We're not friends."

"Fuck buddies, casual acquaintances, whatever you want to call it. I made you feel things you've never felt before. And not just with my mouth." He lifted a hand and tapped his temple with two fingers. "But with my _mind,_ Sherlock. You've never encountered anyone like me before. And you never will again."

The car finally came to a stop, and Sherlock didn't even have time to attempt an escape before the back door was opened and his feet were grabbed, and he was being yanked out by two tall, muscular men, both wearing earpieces and sunglasses, despite the fact that there was no sun.

_He really isn't going to kill me. If he was, he wouldn't bother with knocking me out, and these men wouldn't be wearing sunglasses to cover their faces. But what does he _want_, then?_

"Hold it, boys!" Jim called to them. He took off his scarf and tied it tightly around Sherlock's head, blocking his eyes. "He's still disoriented, but let's not chance it."

They got Sherlock out of the car and stood him up, each man holding tightly onto one of his arms. "Where are we taking him, Boss?" the one on right asked.

"Hmm…take him to the Chamber and get him settled. I'll be down after I change clothes."

The two men tugged on his arms, gripping them so tightly that it hurt, and started to lead him up a staircase. Sherlock heard a door being opened, then felt the warmth of the heated building rush over him. He found himself wishing that Jim hadn't left him alone with the men. And what did he mean by 'the Chamber'?

After walking several feet, the men pulled on his arms and they turned right, then walked for a few steps until another door was open, and then Sherlock was led down a long flight of stairs. The only sound he could make out was the three sets of feet moving over the ground.

The men pressed on Sherlock's shoulders, hard, shoving him down into a straight-backed, hard chair. He felt a cool sensation on his wrists suddenly, also hard, no doubt metal restraints, and then felt his ankles being buckled in a similar fashion.

After he was restrained, he waited to hear the sounds of the men returning upstairs, but they never came. Moriarty, no doubt, wanted to have some muscle with him for the confrontation. It was only a few minutes before he heard someone coming downstairs, but, to Sherlock, it felt like hours.

_What is he going to do with me? Talk to me? Torture me? Threaten me? _

His mouth twitched.

_No matter what it is, it's exciting._

"Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear," said Jim, coming up behind him. Sherlock felt the blindfold being pulled off his eyes and saw Jim standing in front of him, now dressed in jet black slacks, black alligator skin shoes, and a forest green cardigan over a black button-up shirt. There was a large white leather chair in front of him, which Jim now occupied, but the rest of the room was empty. The only light was from a dim, glowing lamp hanging above them. The two men from before were standing behind Jim, hands held behind their backs.

"I just _had_ to get out of those clothes. I felt so cheap. So _normal_."

When Sherlock didn't reply, Jim leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced together. "What are you feeling right now, Sherlock? Angry? Excited?" He smirked. "Aroused?"

"Why ask questions you already know the answer to?" the detective retorted.

"Because, I like the sound of your voice."

Sherlock waited, expectantly, for Jim to explain what he wanted, but he sat back in his chair and crossed his legs and rested his head on his hand.

_This is ridiculous, _Sherlock thought. _He's just toying with me. _

"Well?"

"Well what?" Jim questioned, looking genuinely confused.

"What do you _want_?"

"Nothing that you can't deliver, Sherlock. I want you to back off."

"If-" Sherlock began, his voice coming out as little more than a croak from his dry mouth-"If you know me as well as you claim to, you'd know that that's impossible."

"Impossible, no. I think you've just never had the right…motivation." Jim bent down and pulled his silver suitcase up into his lap and clicked it open. "You've never had a reason to leave something alone, because you've never taken the risks that you are now."

This caught Sherlock's attention. "What risks do you mean?"

Jim smirked at him. "Well, it's like I told you on our last phone conversation: why tell you when I could show you?"

He pulled a thin laptop out of his briefcase and opened it up, turning it so the screen faced the bound detective. Sherlock's heart sank when he saw the image on the screen.

It was a feed of John and Sarah sitting on the couch together. They were at her house, like John told him he would be, and John had his arm wrapped around her, and she had her head laying on his shoulder. A large bowl of chips was sitting on John's lap, and Sherlock could hear faint voices in the background and see the colored lights of the TV flashing.

"Now," Jim was saying, "look what happens when I do _this_." He snaked his arm around to the front of the laptop and clicked the mouse pad once. Now, the scene playing out on the laptop was still John and Sarah, but it was from another angle; all Sherlock could see was the back of the sofa, and the back of John and Sarah's head. Almost instantly after the angle changed, a large red dot appeared on the back of John's head, flickering ever-so-slightly.

"No!"

The empty rattling of Sherlock's restraints echoed through the room. He had tried to moving, tried to resist shouting, but all his instincts told him that he had to be there for John, to protect him, even if he was chained to a chair, being taunted by the only worthy opponent he'd ever encountered.

"Oh…you don't like that, do you, Sherlock?" Jim sneered as Sherlock continued to struggle against his bonds. "I didn't figure you would. But at least now, maybe, you _will_ see how serious I am about this."

"About _what_?" Sherlock spat, making one final attempt to lurch out of his chair. _"What?"_

"You, Sherlock, I am serious about _you_! I've been in this business a long time, and have never, _ever _had to give a second thought to my completed crimes. But now that you're making it _your_ business to know all about _my_ business…well, we just can't be having that."

Jim put his laptop back onto the chair and squatted down in front of Sherlock, cupping the detective's thin, pale face in his hands. "So, here's what I suggest. Give yourself to me, and I won't kill Johnny boy. As a matter of fact, if you do everything I tell you to do, I won't touch a hair on his pretty little head. If you refuse, well…I think we both know what would happen then."

"Why do you want me?" Sherlock moaned. "Give myself to you…you mean you want to fuck me? You want me to stop solving and preventing your crimes? You want me to be your personal manservant, what?"

"Ah, the first two will be fine," Jim said, standing and walking over to his briefcase. "Moran handles the latter particularly well."

"Forget it," Sherlock growled as Jim rummaged around in the briefcase. "Nothing I say or do will keep you from killing John. You-"

"Now, that's not true, Sherlock," Jim interrupted, standing up, his back to Sherlock. "I told you I wouldn't hurt him, and I mean that. If you won't take my word as a gentleman, take it as a lover."

"We're _not_ lovers!"

"Uh-uh, Sherlock," Jim tutted warningly. "If you want the love of your life to remain unharmed, I suggest you stop fighting me and accept your fate. But, don't worry." Jim kneeled down next to Sherlock and kissed him firmly on the cheek. "I won't make you do anything that you won't love. It'll all be fun for you, whether you'll admit it or not." He held up his hand, and Sherlock saw that he was holding a medium-sized syringe with a long needle sticking out of the end. It was filled with a clear liquid. Jim pointed it towards him and gave the end a slight nudge with him thumb, squirting out some of the liquid onto Sherlock's lips.

"Do you know what this is?" Jim asked. His voice sounded like he was speaking to himself, far away and misty.

Sherlock didn't flinch, tried to ignore the drops of liquid that were quivering on his lips. "Am I supposed to?" he asked coldly. _You know what it is, Sherlock. He _knows _you know what it is. God, he's not really going to…_

Jim chuckled and bent in to kiss the detective, licking the substance off his lips hungrily. "It is cocaine," he murmured against Sherlock's slightly open mouth, "a seven percent solution. Would you care to try it?"

"Thank you, no."

"You've quite a history with this, don't you?" Jim continued, as if he hadn't heard Sherlock's response at all. "Almost had a sentence…were it not for dear, _dear_ brother Mycroft."

Sherlock smirked. "That was five years ago. I've been clean since then."

"Sure you have. Ever since Mycroft sent you to The Sanctuary, Byron Bay, Australia, room four-twenty-seven, the bottom bunk, left side of the room, right next to the window. Yeah, you've been clean, Sherlock. Unless you count those boxes, and boxes, and boxes of nicotine patches that you've gone through. Not to mention that cigarette you smoked right before I came over."

_Shit_. "You smelled it?"

Jim pointed at his eyes. "Saw it. I was in your house a few days ago, Sherlock, while you were at the library. It gave me a good insight into your mind, and also gave me the opportunity to put up a few cameras." He grinned. "I must say, Sherlock, you're quite _stunning_ on the rare occasions that you sleep." He motioned for the two men standing behind him to come forward and they did, looming, daunting. "But enough flattery, my dear. Horace and Shelby here will…_assist_ you with your injection." He handed the syringe to the man on his left, then bowed and gave Sherlock one last kiss on his lips. "Enjoy."


	9. Chapter 9

**WOW okay so this took me forever to write and for that I apologize! School's started back up and I worked tons of hours this week, so I've been a busy gal. This chapter's not as long as I would've liked, but I reached a good stopping point and decided that it'd be better to get it up :) We've got some John/Sherlock action almost starting in this chapter-it's a huge tease! But yeah, we're getting there, I promise. I don't know when I'll get chapter ten written and posted, but I'll work on it as much as I can. To those of you that have reviewed, thank you! I think I sent everyone private messages, but there were some annonymous reviewers or ones that didn't accept private messages that I couldn't write back to, so a big thank you to you! Enjoy!**

"Hey. Hey, wake up. Sherlock, wake up."

_John._

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open slowly, but he instantly closed them again-did it _always_ take that much effort to keep his eyes open?

He felt a rest hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. "No, no, you've got to wake up. Come on, open your eyes."

Sherlock forced them open a second time, only to find a bright light shining in his face. Thankfully, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"Well, your pupils are back to normal," he heard John saying. "That's a start. Can you sit up?"

_Stand? What…stand? He wants a stand? He wants to stand? He wants me to…oh. _

Sherlock's eyes slowly rolled full circle, and the detective took in as much of his surroundings as he could. He was slumped on the couch, his right arm and head propped up on the side. He clenched the couch arm with his hand and tried to pull himself up, to no avail. His body felt completely numb, as if each of his limbs was asleep. He shook his head slowly, and it drooped onto his chest.

"All right," John said softly. "All right, it's all right, you don't have to. Just take it easy."

He reached out and lifted Sherlock's chin, gently, while his other hand pressed on the detective's shoulder. "Lay back."

Sherlock didn't-couldn't-resist as John gently adjusted his limp body until he was laying against the back of the couch. His head, which John still had a firm hold on, was draped over the top. "Drink this."

Sherlock felt a cup being pressed against his bottom lip, and he instantly closed his gaping lips and furrowed his brow. He tried to protest, but all he managed to get out was a strangled moan.

"It's water," John prodded. "Just water. You need to get hydrated."

John moved his hand from Sherlock's chin to his forehead and tilted it back as far he could, until it was leaning against the back of the couch. "Just a little bit."

_John-Dr. Watson. You weren't exaggerating. You _are_ a very good doctor. You're so calm, so gentle, so comforting. I don't deserve this…I've been such a fool._

Despite John's best attempts to help Sherlock get down the glass of water, most of it ended up on their chests-Sherlock drooled it onto his own and coughed it onto John's.

"Well," John said with a frown, "that's better than nothing. We'll try again later."

Sherlock's vision was clearing up slowly, inch by inch, and he could see cracks of sunlight peeking through the curtains that John had so thoughtfully drawn. He let his eyes roam over his body; he was wearing the same clothes he'd been in the night before, except now his shirt was unbuttoned and pulled away from his chest.

"Sorry," John said, noticing that Sherlock's gaze was lingering on his opened shirt. "It was easier to listen to you that way."

"F-Fine," Sherlock choked out. His voice was quiet and raspy; it sounded more like a snake's hiss than a man's voice. "John-"

"You shouldn't talk," John interrupted gently. "You need to rest."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "N-No. How…How did-did I get…here?"

John's lips tightened and he sighed heavily. "I didn't think you'd remember. I don't know how you got here, Sherlock. I wasn't here, remember? I was with Sarah."

"So you-you…found me here?"

"In a manner of speaking. You texted me. Do you not remember that either? You texted me at almost eleven last night, telling me that I needed to come here right away. I wrote you back asking why, but, when you never answered, I got worried. I came at the perfect time-when I came in, you were…well…" John trailed off, obviously not wanting to relive the events.

"Yes?"

John shook his head stubbornly. "Doesn't matter." He pulled on Sherlock's arm until the detective was sitting up straight, then he lifted Sherlock's left arm over his shoulders and put his own right around Sherlock's waist. "We need to get you to bed. You can sleep off the rest of this."

"But-I-"

"No, no, just, shut _up_. Only a fool argues with his doctor, Sherlock, and you're no fool. An idiot yes, but not a fool."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up into a tiny grin as John, holding onto him tightly, lifted him off the couch and slowly led them into his room. "I hope you don't mind switching rooms for a bit. There's no way in Hell that I'm going to lug you up all those steps."

_Oh, John, you'll regret this. My room is more of a mess than the rest of the house. At least I _try_ to keep myself under control for you, but, in there…you'll go mad._

Sherlock chuckled once, abruptly, and John glanced over at him, concern, confusion, and amusement showing in his eyes. "What's so funny?"

"My-My room is…it's…"

"Let me guess-a pigsty. I'm not surprised, I'm really not. But I swear to God, Sherlock, when you're back to normal, I'm not going to let you _leave_ the bloody room until you clean it spotless, I promise you that."

The two were at the side of John's bed, and the doctor gently and carefully helped Sherlock get settled. First Sherlock sat on the bed and John helped him lean back against the pillows, then he lifted Sherlock's legs onto the mattress and pulled the blanket and sheet up to Sherlock's shoulders.

John placed one of his cool, calloused hands on Sherlock's brow. "You're burning up," he said, frowning. "And you're sweating. Let me go get you a rag-" he had made to move away and leave the room, but was stopped when he felt Sherlock's hand covering his own, pressing it firmly to the man's forehead.

"No rag," Sherlock argued meekly. "This…This will do nicely."

Hesitantly, Sherlock moved his face and John's hand simultaneously until the hand was cupping his warm cheek. John didn't move his hand, but Sherlock could just barely make out his chest moving in and out rapidly, and he could hear the faint breaths coming quickly.

_Don't rush him, Sherlock,_ he told himself. _That's enough for now…you've made your point. Besides, he's going to chalk this up to delirium on your part, so don't get excited. _

As Sherlock felt his heart begin to beat faster, he raised his eyes until they'd locked onto John's. John, to his surprise, was staring at him intently. His cheeks were tinged red, his mouth was slightly open, and his eyes, God, those eyes.

_He knows. He _has_ to. He's blushing. He's breathing quicker than normal. _

Sherlock's heart was beating so fast that he thought, illogical as it was, that it would explode at any moment. _What now? What do I do now? Or maybe I should let him make the first move? Bloody hell, what am I thinking, I don't even know if he's going to do _anything! _He's with Sarah, he's not gay, why would-is he coming towards me?_

John was indeed coming closer towards Sherlock, very slowly, but surely. Sherlock's grip on the doctor's hand tightened as he tried, in vain, to move closer to John in reciprocation, but he was just too weak. He let his eyes droop shut and waited anxiously for John's lips to press against his own.

"Knock knock!"

Both John and Sherlock lurched in surprise, and the bed screeched as John jumped off of it and spun around to look at the entrance to his room.

_No_.

Jim-_Moriarty_-was leaning against the doorframe. He was back in his guise of innocent, flaming Jim, with light blue, torn jeans, a long sleeve horizontally-striped black and white shirt, a black driver cap, black Chuck Taylors, and, a new feature, black square-framed glasses.

"The door was open, so, I hope I'm not interrupting," Jim said, smiling sweetly at the two men. He looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, darling, are you all right? I got worried when you never showed up for breakfast. You look positively awful." Jim moved towards the bed and John, to Sherlock's disappointment, immediately moved away from it.

"I'll leave you two alone," John said softly. He glanced at Jim. "Be-Be gentle with him, he's had a bit of an ordeal."

Jim nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Watson, I will be. Promise."

Before Sherlock had a chance to protest, John had left the room and shut the door behind him. Jim, immediately, turned around and locked the bedroom door. "There's only one thing about you that I don't understand," Jim said as he pulled off his hat and dropped it on the ground, "and that is how you fell for someone so incredibly _stupid_."

Sherlock pressed on the bed and tried to sit up, but his body was still hardly cooperating with him. He managed to slide himself upright a few inches, but was then too exhausted to move any more.

"He's not stupid."

"Of course, he's a genius for leaving you in here, defenseless and drugged up, with the most dangerous man in Europe." Jim scoffed. "_Right_."

"What-What do you _want_?" Sherlock snarled.

Jim shrugged as he walked towards the bed and sat down next to Sherlock. "Nothing, really. I just _happened _to see the two of you about to make sweet, sweet love and realized that I wasn't ready to give you up without a fight."

"You mean you were jealous?"

Jim glared at the detective. "Did I say that?"

"You don't have to."

Jim leaned in towards Sherlock and dropped his voice to a low, but clear, whisper. "You forget Sherlock, my dear, that I _own _you. I know you think that it's ludicrous, that it's impossible, but that's because I've only given you a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there, in the big, bad world. You're dealing with not only me, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which even _you_ have been unable to realize. I have people all over the globe answering to me. I commit _thousands_ of crimes a year without ever leaving my desk. You don't think I can control every move you make, every word you say? Think again." Jim stood and walked over to where his hat was, then reached inside it and pulled out a slip of paper and flicked it to Sherlock. "Eight o'clock tomorrow evening. I expect you to be there."

Sherlock unfolded the paper delicately. _"_An invitation to the Crown's Charity Gala?" He crumpled the paper up in his hand. "Why do you want m-me there?"

"I need a date," Jim said sarcastically. "Don't question me, Sherlock. Just be there. And dress appropriately."

Jim put his hat on pat Sherlock's leg, smiling broadly. "Feel better, _sweetheart_."

He turned around and unlocked the bedroom door and had just started to turn the knob when Sherlock asked, "Why did you text John?"

Jim didn't turn around, and he didn't move his hand from the doorknob. "I beg your pardon?"

"John told me that-that I texted him. I didn't. I couldn't have. Even now, hours after the fact, I still don't have enough coordination back to type out a message. You did it. Why?"

Jim shook his head. "You're imagining things. You probably did it and just can't remember. You did drift in and out of consciousness, you know?"

"Don't lie to me," Sherlock argued. "You should know that I can tell."

Jim sighed and turned around, smirking. "Quite right. You're right, I did text the doctor. My boys shot you up with double what they were supposed to-I took care of them, don't worry-and, as you have probably guessed by now, the end result was most…_unfortunate._ If I hadn't brought the doctor to you, you wouldn't have survived the night. Why, when he found you last night, you were already facing Death itself. He had to give you CPR, mouth-to-mouth, the whole shebang." His sneer widened. "Too bad you weren't awake for it-you would've enjoyed it." He pulled the door open and winked at the detective. "Until tomorrow then, Sherlock." He stepped out of the room, only to reappear a second later. "And bring your gun."


	10. Chapter 10

**This is a great chapter, imho. John and Sherlock interaction, and you get to see Mycroft. For a little while lol. Please don't hate me! Sorry it took so long to get up, but, like I've been saying, classes are kicking my butt! But I'm trying to write whenever I can, so don't forget about this story even though it may take several days for an update! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and to everyone who read it :) I hope you like this one, let me know!**

John was sitting in Sherlock's chair and staring into his teacup. It was still filled to the brim-he wasn't in the mood to drink it. His stomach growled, but the thought of food made him nauseous.

_Drugs. Lestrade was right. He's a bloody addict._

"God_damn_," John said as he leaned his head back onto the top of the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and ran his hand over his face. John had so many questions for his flat mate, but had managed to keep himself from asking them. Before being the angry friend, he was a compassionate doctor, and it was obvious that Sherlock was in no condition to have any type of intelligent conversation. What did he take? Crack or heroin, most likely. Did he _plan_ on overdosing, or did it just happen? How long had it been since he'd last used? Had he ever gotten help? When did he start? Did he have a criminal record from it?

"What's your diagnosis, Doctor?"

John yelped in surprise and shot out of Sherlock's chair, hissing in pain as his tea spilt onto his stomach, lap, and trickle down his legs. _"Christ!"_ He brushed at his wet pants frantically, but succeeded in nothing except getting his hands covered in the scalding liquid.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" Jim was saying, approaching John. "God, I'm so sorry; are you all right?"

"Fine," John muttered as he went into the kitchen and grabbed a towel, dabbing gingerly at his shirt. "I'm-I'm fine, it's not your fault."

John heard a door being opened, then heard it slam against the wall. "John!" He walked returned to the living room and saw Sherlock, hunched over and breathing heavily, standing in the bedroom doorframe, his eyes darting around the room, finally settling on the doctor. "John! Are you all right?"

John cocked his head. "Of course I'm all right."

"He just had a spill, that's all," Jim said, a warm smile on his face. He walked towards Sherlock and put both hands on the detective's hips and let his forehead rest against the other man's. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

Sherlock put his hand on Jim's shoulder and pushed him aside with as much force as he could allow without the action looking suspicious. He took another shaky step towards John. "You-You're really all right?"

_What's the matter with him?_

"Yes," John said with a slow nod. "Sherlock, I'm fine. It's like Jim said; I just spilled my tea." He rolled his eyes when he realized that his roommate wasn't even paying attention to him anymore; instead, his eyes were boring holes into Jim.

"Let me walk you out," he said, and John couldn't help but think there was an icy tone underlying his voice.

"No, no!" John insisted, stepping forward and putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, I'll walk him out, you go back-"

"Boys, boys, I can walk myself out!" Jim interrupted. He winked at Sherlock and nodded curtly at John. "Feel better, love. Doctor Watson, good day."

Jim left the room, and John frowned when Sherlock didn't immediately return to bed-instead, he limped over to the window and looked down at the street as Jim was walking away from their flat.

"Nice guy," John was saying, though he didn't know if Sherlock was listening or not. "Jim, I mean. He seemed to genuinely care about you."

"You seem surprised," Sherlock said bitterly as he turned around to face John. He crinkled his forehead. "Is that _really_ so shocking to you, that someone might care about me?"

John's mouth slacked open before he could prevent it. "You're not serious. You can't _possibly_ be serious. Just a few days ago, I was up the whole bloody night waiting for you. Then last night, all night, I put up with you puking, screaming, moaning, _Christ_, Sherlock, you don't think I care?"

Sherlock had returned his gaze to the window, and had one of his hands clutching the ledge to prop himself up. "I didn't mean-"

"No, of course you didn't. Go ahead then; tell me what you _did _mean."

Sherlock was silent for a beat. John was about to storm out of the room when the detective spoke, so softly that John had to struggle to hear the words.

"John…what was happening this morning? Before Jim interrupted?"

_Shit. He wasn't as out of it as I thought he was._

John shrugged. "What do you mean? I was helping get you settled."

"John, don't-" Sherlock stopped and shook his head, frustrated. "Don't-Don't play that game. I know what you were doing. What I don't know is if you meant it."

John tried to look as confused and innocent as possible. "Sherlock, I don't know-"

"Stop it!" Sherlock snarled, slamming his fist against the window. "You know damn well what I'm talking about! You were going to _kiss_ me. Why?"

Sherlock felt guilty for being so curt with John, but he needed to know, and he needed to know _now_. John looked positively distraught, but, to his credit, he never let his eyes stray from Sherlock's. His hands were clenched into fists, and his arms were hanging parallel to his frame.

John shook his head. "You want to know if I meant it. I don't know. I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"No, Sherlock, I don't!" John snapped. "You want me to be honest with you? Well, I _honestly_ don't know what I was doing! It…It's just…" He sighed and brought a hand up to the back of his head and rubbed furiously at his neck. "Sherlock, I-Christ. You just looked so pitiful laying there! And when you held my hand, I just…" He paused mid-sentence and his eyes widened. He stepped closer to Sherlock and pointed an accusing finger at him. "Now, wait just one bloody minute. _You_ started all of this! Not me, _you_! So if anyone has to explain themselves, it's you!"

Sherlock shook his head and took a hesitant, small step towards the doctor. When he realized that he could stand without getting dizzy, finally, he took another, larger, step. "I believe my intentions were _quite_ clear, John. What I don't know is how _you _feel about it." He chuckled softly. "It's almost funny, really. Here I can tell a stranger's life story just by looking at their handwriting, or how they wear their hair, but John…when it comes to my feelings for you…I'm utterly clueless."

John licked his cracked lips and cleared his throat before choking out, "How-How long…how long have you-"

"From the first time I saw you," Sherlock said softly. "I…John…I don't, of course, expect you to return my affections. But, if you ever-"

"Shut up," John interrupted. The words were harsh, but, Sherlock was pleased to note, John's tone was gentle. If anything, his friend sounded _amused_. "Why me?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly. "I have no idea."

"Yes you do. What is it about me that you like? Well, that you like…like that? Of all the people that you come into contact with-government officials, celebrities, royalty, serial killers, why would you pick me?"

A low chuckle escaped from Sherlock's throat. "I didn't _pick_ you, John. Not exactly. I told you, I knew from the moment I saw you. You…You just…" He cleared his throat and looked at John with a renewed fervor. "You're everything I've ever wanted, or, everything I would think that I'd ever wanted. I've never loved, and I never thought I would. And then I met you. You're brave, practical, intelligent, moral, confident, loyal, _attractive_-" he raised his eyebrows and smirked-"Shall I go on?"

Sherlock's smirk turned into an outright grin when he saw that John had started to blush.

"I need some time to think about this," John was saying, speaking fast. "I think I'm gonna-"

_No_, Sherlock thought to himself, his heart immediately sinking._ No, John, please! You were going along with it, please, don't change your mind now._

"John-"

John held up a hand, halting Sherlock's pleas. "Now, I'm not-I'm not saying no, Sherlock. I'm not saying _anything _right now. I just…I have to think about things."

**/break\**

**I'm going to get abducted when I leave the apartment. Don't do anything; just follow behind. Keep your distance. **

Jim sent the text massage just as he opened the front door of 221B. He turned to the right, towards his ride, when he heard the expected shuffling of feet behind him. He froze in his tracks, rigid, and braced for the impact. He heard a loud rush of air behind him, and then a sharp pain on the back of his head. As he was drifting off, he felt handcuffs being clasped around his wrists, and arms being wrapped around his body. He blacked out with a smile on his face.

When Jim awoke, he was sitting on a bench. He looked around for any indication of where he was, but the room wasn't familiar. It was a huge room, dark, except for the single light hanging almost directly above him. The bench he was sitting on was a piano bench; he craned his head around to see a beautiful black Kemble Grand piano. The floor was made of white marble, swirled with black, and he see shelves and shelves of books lining the walls. There was a metal chair sitting a few feet in front of Jim. The room was circular, but, beyond that, he couldn't make out anything else.

Jim's head was throbbing. He brought his left hand up to rub it, pleased to see that his handcuffs had been removed. When his hand came into contact with the back of his head, he grimaced-he could feel a crusty shell of dried blood that had accumulated there.

"I do hope you'll accept my apologies for having my men knock you out. You understand my reasoning, I'm sure."

A tall man, wearing a black suit and a sarcastic smile, stepped into the ring of light. Jim returned his grin, and it held just as much sarcasm.

"Apology accepted."

Mycroft Holmes sat in the metal chair and crossed his legs, then his arms. "I suppose you-"

Jim held up a finger. "Hold on. Before we began, may I play this?" He motioned at the piano behind him. "It's beautiful; I'm sure it sounds _heavenly_."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you play, do you?"

"For twenty-five years. Self-taught."

Mycroft shrugged. "Go on, then."

Jim turned around and let his fingers settle on the smooth, ivory keys. No one knew he was a musician-not even Sebastian. As he began to play, his lips curved up into a genuine smile; playing always had that effect on him. He had decided to treat the senior Holmes to one of his favorite compositions, All of Me, written by Jon Schmidt.

_Oh, Sherlock. I wonder if you feel like this when you play your violin. Happy. Genuinely happy. _

The sound was over almost as quickly as it had began, but it left a beautiful chord floating in the air of the dark room. Behind him, Jim heard Mycroft clear his throat.

"That was very nice," the man was saying. "I wonder if that's the root of your fascination for Sherlock Holmes…musical admiration, perhaps?"

Jim chuckled as he spun around to face Mycroft. "Would you believe me if I said you were right?"

The smile had left Mycroft's face, and he looked furious and disgusted. "Who are you?" he spat. "Since you first encountered Sherlock Holmes, I've been checking up on you, but I can't find _anything_. It's as if you don't exist."

Jim chuckled. "Well. That is a problem, isn't it, _Mycroft_?"

Mycroft's eyes widened for only a split-second before his face returned to its stony expression. "I see you have me at a disadvantage." He stood up and walked over to Jim, looking down at him with pure hatred shining in his eyes. "Who are you?"

Jim shook his head. "I didn't tell your brother. What chance do you think _you_ have?"

"Yes, well, my brother doesn't have the whole of the British government standing behind him. Perhaps that will motivate you?"

Jim snorted. "Hardly. I've been eluding the British government for years. And the Chinese government, and the American government, hell, even _Russia_. You'll have to do better than that."

"You're his lover, aren't you?" Mycroft mused, ignoring what Jim was saying. "That's strange. Sherlock doesn't _have_ lovers."

Jim, again, shook his head. "Stop talking. You're making yourself look stupider by the moment." He stood up and crossed his arms. "Now, Mr. Holmes, can I do anything else for you, or am I free to go?"

"Sit down," Mycroft said, his tone steady but firm. "I'm not letting you go until I get an answer. Who are you, and what do you want with Sherlock?"

Jim hissed in a tight breath of air and crinkled his eyebrows, almost sympathetically. "I would tell you, but, you know how it goes. I'd have to kill you." Jim stopped and shrugged. "But then again, I don't give a damn about that, do I?"

Jim stepped closer to Mycroft, not enough for the move to be threatening, but enough to show Mycroft who was in charge of the situation.

"My name is James Moriarty. I am solely responsible for ninety percent of the crime that happens in our fair city, and thousands of international. Your brother just happens to be the most fascinating man I've ever encountered, and I couldn't let the opportunity to become…_involved_…with him pass me up. He was seriously inconveniencing me before, but I've put a stop to that now." He took another step towards Mycroft. "Any other questions?"

Mycroft seemed stunned, no doubt he was surprised that Jim actually _had_ told him about himself. Jim cleared his throat, and Mycroft flinched when he heard a loud clicking sound come from behind him.

"I just have one."

Jim nodded. "Shoot." He smirked and looked past Mycroft, to something behind him. "Not you, Vern." He again locked eyes with Mycroft. "What?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Will you make it quick?"

Smiling, Jim clasped his hands together, excitedly. "I think we can manage that, Mr. Holmes."

The gun erupted, and it was in the blink of an eye that Mycroft Holmes sank to the floor, with vacant eyes and a drooping mouth. Jim gave one abrupt snort of laughter before turning on his heels and leaving the elder Holmes brother bleeding onto the cold marble floor.

**As always, reviews = faster updates. :) Thanks for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

**I love this chapter! Even though Jim's not in it. I got it up really quickly because I already had a good portion of it written when I posted chapter ten, and, it was just easy to write! The words just kind of came to me; don't you love it when that happens? I am afraid, though, that some things might be unclear, so if you find that's the case, feel free to shoot me a message. I think I got back to all my reviewers, except the annonymous ones or ones that don't allow PMs, so to you guys, thanks for much for reading and taking the time to review, it is very much appreciated! I still own nothing of the Sherlock Holmes franchise.**

John had only just gone to his room; Jim had left not more than five minutes ago, and Sherlock had already gotten a text from his brother. As he read the message, he felt his heart stop.

**I hope your new fling is as brave as John Watson.**

"Mycroft," Sherlock gasped aloud. "Shit, Mycroft!"

The text could only mean one thing-he'd gotten a similar one before Mycroft had interrogated John. So, now Mycroft was taking his turn with Jim.

Sherlock thrust his phone into his jeans pocket and ran over to John's bedroom, pounding on the door only once before flinging it open. "John!"

"Well, I need a bit more time than that, Sherlock!" John said with a roll of his eyes. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, having pulled his sweater off, and was now in just his jeans a white t-shirt. "Did you-"

"Mycroft is in danger," Sherlock interrupted. "You need to come with me, _now_."

He turned from the room and ran over to the couch, grabbing his coat and opening it to put it on.

"Sherlock, wait-wait!" John was saying, as he emerged from the room. "What are-how do you know? What's wrong with Mycroft?" He scanned the room, looking for his own coat, to no avail. "Sherlock, where's my coat? Have you seen it?"

Sherlock shook his head and tossed his coat to John, who caught it, and, with a surprised expression on his face, glanced at Sherlock. "Take mine," the detective said hastily. "Your gun, John, I need your gun!"

As John pulled on Sherlock's coat-which was tight around his shoulders, and dragging on the ground-he dashed back into his room and retrieved his army revolver from his desk drawer. He dropped it in Sherlock's hand and the detective was instantly running out of their flat, John right on his heels as they pounded down the steps.

They burst out of the house together. John froze in his tracks when he saw that Sherlock wasn't stopping-he was running right out into the road.

"Sherlock!" John hollered after him. "Sherlock, be-"

His words got caught in his throat when he heard a car horn shrieking through the cold air, followed by the harsh squeal of brakes. The car looked to be a '70 MGB, navy blue. Sherlock scuffled around to the driver's side and pointed the gun at the window.

"Get out!" he barked. "Get out, _now_!"

The door open, and John, as he approached the car, saw a middle-aged and balding man pull himself out of the car, his hands up in the air.

"All right, man!" he said, his voice quivering. "Take the car. Just please, don't-don't shoot me!"

Sherlock stepped forward and pushed the man roughly aside. Then he looked up and locked eyes with John.

"Do you drive?"

John shook his head. "Yes. But Sherlock-"

"Save it for the road, John!" the detective interrupted. He circled the car and heaved himself into the front passenger seat as John got in the driver's.

"So," John said as calmly as he could manage as he buckled his seatbelt and turned the key, the car roaring to life, "want to tell me where I'm going?"

"Straight," Sherlock answered coldly as he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his phone. "I'll tell you where to turn."

"And why did you _steal_ a car? What's wrong with a cab?"

"Too slow," Sherlock muttered, then nodded at the speed meter for emphasis. "You'll want to go at least 50K."

John chuckled nervously. "No-No, Sherlock I'm not going to drive down Baker Street going fifty kilometers; can you not see this traffic?"

"John!"

Sherlock's voice was harsh, harsher than he had intended, but he couldn't let John's civic duty be the reason his brother died. "Trust me, John," he said, softer, gentler. "I'm sure it will be a challenge, but you can do it, I'm sure of it. _Please_."

"Who are you texting?" John asked, aghast, as he noticed that Sherlock's thumbs were flying across his phone screen. "Lestrade?"

"Yes," Sherlock lied.

_Not Lestrade. Not yet_.

He thought about texting Mycroft, even though he knew that the sad truth was it was already too late to warn him of the danger he was in. _Jim probably knew before he even left the flat that Mycroft's men were waiting for him. He probably had his own there waiting to follow, to step in if things got too…risky._

He looked down at the text message he had typed-**Leave my brother out of this**_-_but he couldn't bring himself to send it. If Jim spared Mycroft, he would expect something from Sherlock in return, and Sherlock wasn't about to stoop to that level.

Sherlock flipped his phone shut and pointed ahead of them. "Turn left at the light." He dialed Lestrade's number and held the phone up to his ear. Sherlock was speaking before Lestrade could even say 'hello'.

"I need an emergency response team to 404 Henstridge Place. Make sure you bring the trauma squad."

"_Wait, what? Why? What's going on?"_

"Can't talk now," Sherlock said, exasperated. "Just be there, and soon."

"What's on Henstridge Place?" John asked as Sherlock disconnected the call. "And how do you know he's there?"

"I just _know_," Sherlock said defensively. "It's his vacation home. Four bedroom, two bath, on three acres of land. Mycroft has never been one to keep things simple."

"Really?" John muttered sarcastically, a smile teasing on his lips. "I hadn't noticed."

"Turn right, here. It's our next left."

John slammed on the brakes of the car, cursing under his breath, twisted the steering wheel to the right. Sherlock had given him absolutely no notice; he'd almost been past the road before he'd told him to turn!

"How about a little notice next time?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No time for that."

John rolled his eyes but couldn't think of a witty-enough retort, so he kept his mouth shut, and his eyes focused on the road in front of him. He turned left onto Henstridge, and his eyes fell immediately on the elder Holmes' house. It was _enormous. _It was a looming brick villa, with a large front lawn covered in luscious green grass. A wide, stout fountain was directly in the center of the yard, and the water was bubbling proudly despite the frigid air.

John's gaze was torn away from the fountain when he heard yet another car horn blaring.

"John!"

He barely had time to register what was going on; he looked in front of him and saw a sleek black Maserati zooming straight towards them. John jerked the steering wheel to the left, just in time for the black car to roar past.

"Who the bloody hell was that?" John spat. "Sherlock, was that Mycroft?"

The passenger door slammed shut behind him; Sherlock was already out of the car and running towards the house. He thought he heard the detective say, "not Mycroft" as he was getting out.

John turned off the car and jumped out; Sherlock was already at the front door of the house, which, he noticed with a heavy heart, was already wide open, as if beckoning Sherlock inside to witness the death of his own brother.

The house was dark inside; the blinds on every window were drawn. He could barely make out the shapes of furniture in the entryway-a table, mirror hanging on the wall, potted plant in the corner. John froze when his foot came into contact with something soft and heavy resting on the ground. He knelt down to look, but couldn't see anything but a dark silhouette. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to illuminate the object, and subsequently dropped it with a gasp.

Anthea was laying on the ground, her knees curled up to her chest. She was wearing a black blazer, brown button-up shirt that was fully unbuttoned, and a black skirt, which had been pulled down to her ankles along with her knickers. John could see dark blood surrounding her body; she looked like she was lying in a huge red puddle. He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, gently shaking her. "Anthea? _Anthea!_"

_The poor girl. Raped and murdered…perhaps not even in that order._

John gently set her back down on the ground and stepped around the woman's body. Only a few more feet, and his shoe collided with another body-a man this time, one we was relieved to see wasn't Mycroft.

"John! John, I need you here!"

John ran in the direction of Sherlock's voice, coming from a large, darkened room. A single light was hanging from the ceiling, illuminating a Grand piano, a plain metal chair, and Sherlock's Holmes' brother. Sherlock was on his knees beside him, his brother's head in his lap.

"He's been shot," Sherlock was saying, talking fast. "In the back of the head, almost at the neck."

"Whoever did this knew exactly where to shoot," John said soberly. He pulled Sherlock's coat off his shoulders and tucked it underneath Mycroft's head, planting his hand firmly against the back of the man's neck. Blood was gushing out of Mycroft's head, trailing down his neck and shoulders and dripping to the marble floor. He pat Mycroft's cheek gently. "Mycroft? Mycroft, can you hear me?" He the coat around Mycroft's neck and looked hard at Sherlock. "Did you see the two in the entryway?"

"Four," Sherlock said softly. "There were four. Mycroft's assistant and three body guards."

John felt a pang in his chest when he saw Sherlock's face; the man looked positively distraught. His brow was creased with worry, and the hands he had on his brother's head were trembling slightly. "John…will he be all right, John?"

John licked his lips nervously; thankfully, at that second; he heard loud sirens, no doubt coming from right outside the house. "It's good that you called Lestrade," he said slowly, trying to avert the question but still comfort Sherlock. He tapped Mycroft's cheek again. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft groaned in response, a low, gurgling sound. "Good!" John said with a small smile. "Mycroft, that's good. Stay awake, stay with us. An ambulance is here; they'll take care of you."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in a voice no more than a whisper, "You'll be all right, brother."

Officers and medical personnel came pouring into the room, flashlights darting around the room and orders being shouted. They ran over to Mycroft and pushed Sherlock and John aside.

"_Gentle_!" Sherlock bellowed. "Be gentle with him!"

As they lifted Mycroft onto a stretcher, Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around to lock eyes with DI Lestrade.

"All right, Sherlock," he said in his characteristic professional voice, "care to tell me what's happening?"

"It's not what's _happening_," Sherlock spat as he brushed Lestrade's hand off his shoulder. "It's what's _happened_. And to be honest, no, I don't care to tell you anything. I'm staying with my brother." True to his word, as soon as Mycroft was lifted on the stretcher, Sherlock followed behind the paramedics, right on their heels.

"So what's all this, then?" Lestrade questioned as he turned to John. "How did he know his brother was going to get shot?"

John shrugged. "I've absolutely no idea."

"Does he know who did it?"

"Like I said," John retorted, frowning as he stood up, "I have absolutely _no_ idea! He hasn't exactly been in the mood or position to talk about it."

"I have five people lying here dead! I need-"

"Mycroft isn't dead," John interrupted. "He was responsive."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and stared at John with a look of pure pity. "_Doctor_ Watson," he said calmly, "you know as well as I do that the chance of survival from a cranial gunshot is slim to none."

"He was shot less than five minutes ago," John argued. "He's already on his way to the hospital. He's still alert. He's got a great chance."

Lestrade shook his head sadly. "I hope you're right, for Sherlock's sake. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Right, right," John said with a wave of his hand. "Busy. Yeah. I'm sure we'll be seeing you soon."

Despite John's pleas, no one would tell him which facility Mycroft had been taken to. For all he knew, they had gone to an elite hospital, a place where only socialites could afford treatment. As he walked out of the house, avoiding the accusing eyes of the police officers, he pulled his phone out of his jacket. When he stepped out of the house, he felt an immediate chill without the thick wool of Sherlock's coat being wrapped around his body. He pulled his phone out of his pants pocket and held it up to his ear. Sherlock answered on the second ring.

"_John."_

"Hey," John said, struggling to keep his voice steady. "How is he?"

"_Still alive. That's all we can hope for now. We've only just arrived at the hospital; they're taking him into surgery. John, will you come?"_

John nodded, despite the fact that Sherlock couldn't see the motion. "Of course I'll come. Where are you?"

"_St. Thomas. And take a cab; I think we've used that poor bloke's car enough for one day."_

John chuckled. "I think you're right. I'll see you soon."

When John arrived at the hospital, his feeling of pity for his flat mate grew. Sherlock was sitting in a straight-backed chair in the waiting room, which was crowded with people from all walks of life. He had his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, and looked to be attempting to drown out all the noise and conversation that was occurring. Young children were sitting on either side of him, screeching and crying like a huge bird.

John approached him and squat down beside him. He placed his right hand on Sherlock's knee. "Hey."

Sherlock pulled his hands away from his face and sniffed. "John. I tried to save you a seat, but-" he waved to the little girl sitting on his left-"she would have nothing to do with it."

John smiled gently. "I understand. We could sit somewhere else, if you'd prefer? The entryway hall was pretty quiet."

"Most definitely," Sherlock agreed as he stood. "Your suggestions are as sound as always, John."

John blushed a little, and the realization that he was blushing made him blush even more. He and Sherlock walked side by side, shoulders and arms occasionally brushing, away from the waiting room and into the long, empty hallway. They sat down on the hard floor, backs against the wall, and sighed simultaneously.

"What a day," John said, rubbing his eyes. "Just…what a day. God, and it's barely two o'clock. What else is going to happen?"

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, it has been a rather trying day, hasn't it? Although-" he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes-"it still beats being bored."

"Who shot him?" John asked. "I know you know. Tell me."

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. "Can't."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not one-hundred percent sure. Only ninety."

John laughed. "Only ninety, huh? I'd say that's enough to be going on."

Sherlock grinned. "I know you would." His eyes snapped open and he turned his head to stare at John intently. "I'm serious though, John. Don't ask me questions about this. I can't answer them, so spare us both the trouble."

**/break\**

When Doctor Grisby had completed the surgery on Mycroft Holmes, it was almost seven o'clock. Then, by the time he briefed the other doctors and nurses on the man's condition-currently stable, but requiring constant supervision and an immediate blood transfusion, bandage changing ever hour-he went to look for the patient's younger brother, Sherlock. No one had answered his calls in the waiting room, but the receptionist had told him that she heard them mention going into the front hallway to wait.

Grisby left the waiting room and, as soon as he turned into the hallway, so the pair leaning up against the wall. Sherlock was obviously the brown-haired, sallow-faced one. The shorter man with light brown hair, was sitting next to Sherlock, and his head was resting on the other man's shoulder. Both had their eyes closed, and their chests were slowly lifting and falling.

"A shame to wake them," Grisby said to himself, but knelt down and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder gently. The man's eyes snapped open immediately, a penetrating icy gray.

"Doctor?" he croaked, his voice holding both fear and expectancy.

Grisby smiled. "It's all right, Mr. Holmes. Your brother's made it through the operation. He's still unconscious, but we removed the bullet without complications. He is a _very_ lucky man."

Sherlock smiled as Grisby walked away from them, and he glanced over at John, who was still sleeping peacefully. John was sitting so close to him that the whole length of their bodies were touching, and his hair was tickling Sherlock's neck and ear.

_He's not the only one who's lucky._

**R&R :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Okay, this chapter is VERY VERY VERY intense. If you don't like intensity, don't read this. Seriously. It definitely deserves its M rating. You might not all like what happens, but, the damage is done. It's the biggest cliffhanger I've ever done lol. And if anyone wonders, no, it's not a dream. At first I thought that Jim seemed out of character in this chapter, but I guess he's really not. Sure, he's not acting like the sweet, carefree man that he was in the earlier chapters, but now he's just being evil, maniacal, psychotic Moriarty. This chapter is full of angst, just so you know!**

**Forget about tomorrow night.**

Jim slammed his phone down on his dresser before turning around and throwing himself onto his bed. He really was being too kind. But why?

_Because you killed his brother._

Yes…but why does that matter? I've killed thousands of people, whether by my own hand or by someone else's, and I've never blinked an eye about it. I _like _it. What makes this different?

_Because you killed _his _brother. Not just anyone's. _His.

Jim smirked. "Sherlock, darling, you must be _so _pissed right now." He laughed as a sudden, filthy thought entered his mind. "I wonder if you're an even _better_ fuck when you're angry. I would love to find out. But, alas, not today." Jim rolled out of bed and pulled his hat snug onto his head. He went over to the door and pulled it open to find Moran standing right outside, his fist raised in preparation to knock.

"Hey," Moran said, looking Jim up and down. "You're wearing _that_?"

Jim crossed his arms and glared at the man. "Problem?"

"I'll say!" Moran said, smirking. "You look like a bloody _teenager_! Now come on, hurry up and get dressed. They won't be happy if they have to wait much longer."

"And since when have I given a damn about that, _Moran _?"

Moran, frowning, crossed his arms sternly. "What the hell's the matter with you? Ever since the ordeal with Mycroft Holmes you've been bitchier than normal. Why is that, I wonder?"

Jim shook his head as his eyes narrowed menacingly. "Don't."

Moran ignored his warning. "I think you feel guilty. I never thought I'd see the day that _you_ felt bad about killing somebody. Of course-"

"I'm warning you. _Don't_."

"-there is the little fact that you seem to be falling more and more for Sherlock Holmes with each passing day. I suppose it would make sense that you take away his closest-"

Moran didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Jim felt around the waistband of his jeans and pulled out his revolver. He gripped it firmly and struck Moran across the face with as much force as he could muster. Moran stumbled back from the impact. As soon as he regained his footing, he reached up and clenched his nose, moaning. "Jesus, Jim! What the _hell_-"

Jim, again, didn't let him finish. He dropped his gun and grabbed Moran's collar, shoving him against the wall roughly. "Don't you _ever_ talk to me like that again. It seems you've forgotten your place. I suggest you remember it soon, or I'll be forced to remind you. Now get out of my sight."

Moran didn't need to be told twice; as soon as Jim released him, he scrambled out of the room, both hands clutching at his face. Jim waited a few seconds, then he, too, left the room.

_You're not mad because he said that_, he told himself. _You're made because you think he might be right._

_No. He's not right. I'm not falling in love with Sherlock Holmes; that's ridiculous. It's a fascination, that's all. The man intrigues me. _

_Call it whatever you want, it's all really the same. You can't stop thinking about him. You nearly threw up when you saw him about to kiss John this morning. All signs point to complete and utter infatuation._

**/break\**

Moran, to Jim's delight, pulled him aside during the conference. Moran was no fool; he would never interrupt Jim unless it was something of incredible urgency. Jim had tried to pay attention to what his department heads and associates were briefing on, but he just hadn't been able to. His mind had been on one thing and one thing only-Sherlock Holmes.

"What is it?" Jim asked when they were standing side-by-side facing into the corner of the room. "It'd better be good."

He felt a slight pang of guilt when he looked at Moran's face; the man's nose was bandaged, and there was a dark red impression from where the gun had ripped across the flesh. No doubt, it would soon turn into a hideous bruise.

"You've got problems," Moran whispered hurriedly. "Mycroft Holmes isn't dead. He's at St. Thomas, expected to make a full recovery."

Jim felt as if a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders, and he sighed. "He won't expose me," he assured Moran. "He'll ask Sherlock about me, and Sherlock will explain the situation and tell him that the only way I can be stopped is through him. Don't worry about that. What else?"

Moran licked his lips nervously and looked at his feet. Jim cleared his throat. "Well?"

"I, um…I don't know how to tell you this." Moran looked up and locked eyes with Jim. "I was watching the tapes, from after you left his flat. He, uh…he…he told Watson that he was in love with him."

Jim's stomach clenched, and, for a moment, he thought he was going to collapse. He regained his composure immediately and shrugged. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes," Jim snarled. "_Fine_. What did you expect? For me to start sniveling and sobbing like a child?" He leaned in closer to Moran, so that his lips were but an inch away from his chief's ear. "Despite your fantasies, I feel _nothing_ for Sherlock Holmes, except hatred and provocation. So, please, keep that in mind the next time you interrupt my congress with 'important' news."

**/break\**

Sherlock and John returned to 221B at seven o'clock in the morning, and both went straight to bed. At eight o'clock, Jim was standing by John's bedside, his eyes narrowed as he watched the man snore softly. He smirked.

"You don't deserve him," Jim hissed at the sleeping figure. "No one does. Not even me."

Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box; he pried it open and removed a thin syringe with a capital 'J' marked on the front. He gently pulled the blanket away from John's arm, folding it on top of the sleeping man's chest, and slid the needle into the thin skin on the inside of his wrist, poking deep into one of the veins.

"You'll forgive me, of course. We're not really all that different-we both want the best for him. And since we know he's not going to make the correct choice on his own, we have to guide him in the right direction." Almost teasingly, Jim let his thumb slowly press down on the syringe, and the clear fluid inside was slowly injected into John's veins.

Jim returned the syringe to the black case after he covered John back up and left the room. He crept slowly up the steps and gently pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open. The man was sprawled out on his bed, on top of the covers, still fully clothed. He hadn't even removed his shoes.

"Such a long day, wasn't it, dear?" Jim said with a smile. "It was for me, too."

He grasped Sherlock's hand and ran his thumb over the sallow palm. He leaned down and, his lips brushing against the detective's ear, whispered, "Don't forget who you answer to."

Jim opened his black box again and pulled out another syringe, this one marked with a capital 'S'. "This should be just enough. Enough to ruin him…but not to ruin you." He unbuttoned Sherlock's sleeve and quickly pushed the syringe into his skin, then rammed the clear liquid, different from the substance that John received, into arm. After returning the syringe to his case and buttoning the shirtsleeve, Jim kissed Sherlock on the forehead and left.

**/break\**

"John! John, wake up! John, are you awake? Wake up, John! Hey! John! Hey, John! Wake up! Wake-"

John did, finally, wake up, and as he opened his eyes, his flat mate stopped babbling. As soon as his eyes were open, John felt a searing flash of pain in his head, and he closed his eyes and tried to fling his arm over his eyes, but, to his dismay, he could hardly lift his arm at all. It felt like it was made of cement.

"Sher-Sherlock," he managed to choke out, though his voice was raspy and soft, "what-what did you-"

John looked at Sherlock, but he couldn't make out anything but Sherlock's mop of curly dark hair and his white teeth flashing in a huge grin. The rest of the man just looked like a blur.

"Good morning!" Sherlock said loudly. At least, it seemed loud to John-Sherlock could have been talking in his normal volume and John was convinced that it would've seemed to be thunderingly loud.

"Shh!" John hissed. "Would you mind keep-keeping your voice…" John trailed off without finishing his request. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, which surprised John. _What's the matter with him? What's the matter with _me_?_

Sherlock chuckled. John's heart begin to pound faster when he felt Sherlock straddling him, his knees on either side of John's hips. John tried to ask him what he was doing, but he couldn't muster up the strength to vocalize the words. Instead he watched through half-closed lids as Sherlock leaned down and whispered in his ear, "You're _phenomenal. _Did you know that? Simply _phenomenal, _John."

_Something is definitely…not…right. What…what is…_

Not only was John's body failing him, but his mind was slowing, too. He couldn't think straight, and he couldn't seem to formulate any real questions, only words, like _what _and _why_.

"…Sher-Sherlock…"

"Shh," the detective purred, kissing John where his ear met the side of his face. "If you don't want this, tell me. You've had enough time to think about it, right? Right? If you don't want it let me know. John? Let me know."

The man was talking so fast, so urgently. John swallowed hard; his mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. He felt Sherlock firmly kissing his head again, moving towards his cheek. He tried to shake his head, but all that happened was that it flopped to the right.

"I…I d-"

That was it. He was finished. It was like whatever was doing this to him had had enough of his fighting, because his body suddenly seized up, and his voice along with it. John couldn't move, he couldn't speak; he could hardly think. His heart, though, was beating so fast that he was sure it would burst out of his chest at any moment and explode.

"I knew you did!" Sherlock said, staring at John with crinkled eyes and a wide smile. "I _knew_ it! I didn't become a world-famous consulting detective for nothing, John!" He laughed and kissed John's forehead, massaging the man's temples gently with his pale fingertips. "You're going to love this. You're-You're just, you're going to love it. _Love_ it. I'll be gentle; I promise. If-"

…_Gentle? No…_

"then I want you to tell me, okay? Don't-Don't be afraid to tell me. It's all right. I know it's your first time, and-"

_First…first time…he can't…surely he's not…_

And that was when John felt it. His mind had been so preoccupied with other things-Sherlock straddling him, Sherlock kissing him, Sherlock talking a hundred words a second, Sherlock whispering in his ear-that he hadn't noticed. There was something long and rock solid-Sherlock's erection, no doubt-pressing against John's crotch.

_Oh no._

It all happened so fast. Sherlock was rocking his hips back and forth against John's, moaning appreciatively the whole time. He unbuttoned his trousers, slowly, and then pulled the zipper down. His eyes never left John's, and the smile never left his face.

"I can't begin to tell you how happy I am," he said as he moved his hands from his trousers to John's. "I've wanted this for so long, and it's finally happening."

John flinched inwardly when Sherlock finished unfastening his pants and pulled them down to his knees. John, now half-exposed, had never felt so helpless in his life. Here he was, laying on his bed, his best friend about to have his way with him, and he was totally incapable of stopping it. He tried to talk, to protest, but, as he'd expected, the words wouldn't come out.

Sherlock tenderly moved John's head so that it was straight, instead of being drooped onto his right shoulder. He brushed John's brown hair away from his forehead, rubbing it gently as he did so. "I love you."

_Sherlock, please don't. PLEASE don't. _

Sherlock, of course, couldn't hear his pleads, and even if he could, it was questionable whether he'd listen to them or not, with the state he himself was it. John felt Sherlock clenching his legs, right under his knees, and pulling him up to a more…_accessible _position.

The detective wasted no time in getting to the desired outcome. John gasped in both pain and shock as he felt Sherlock enter him, and none-to-slowly. The man hadn't even bother to put on lubricant-no doubt he was in such a hurry to do this thing that he, apparently, had been desiring for months.

Every thrust, every gyration, brought nothing but an extreme jolt of pain to John. Was this really happening? Was his best friend _really_ raping him?

_Dreaming_, John told himself. _You're…You're dreaming, John. That's all. It's-It's a dream. It-oh, _fuck!

That thrust had gone even further inside him than the rest, and it had hurt like hell. John likened it to a hot, pointed stick being repeatedly shoved up his arse.

John closed his eyes and tried to let his mind wander, which was simply impossible. His thoughts were still jumbled, and he couldn't seem to think about anything other than what was happening to him right now. It was like his whole life up to this moment hadn't even been real.

He didn't know how long Sherlock plowed him; all he knew was that it hurt like hell, and it was bloody humiliating. His eyes were beginning to tear up, but whether it was from the pain or the embarrassment, he wasn't sure. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who was still staring at him and smiling.

"Sher…lock."

A single tear dripped out of John's eyes and trailed down his cheek. Sherlock's eyes were drawn to it immediately, and he watched, mesmerized, as it travel along John's face. He had stopped thrusting. He had stopped breathing. When the tear dropped to the bed, Sherlock jerked his eyes back to John's. The steel-gray eyes widened, and Sherlock's mouth dropped open. He placed shaking hands on John's hips and pulled out of the smaller man's body, slowly, gently. He covered John's exposed body with the blanket, then turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

**R&R if you feel so inclined. But please, don't tell me what you hate what happens and that I shouldn't have written it like this because, like I said, it's already done. And don't worry, I have plans for it :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**So_..._I don't know how to say this, but I feel like this story is crumbling lol. I am, as the cliche goes, my own worst critic, but I don't feel like the characters are staying _in _character. Don't you hate when they do that? If you think they're ooc, let me know. If you don't think they are, let me know that, too. Sorry it took so long to get up; I've been so busy! But, this is actually a day earlier than I was expecting :) As always, I own nothing except the idea for this story, and thank you to my lovely readers and a special thank you to the ones who take time to review! **

John opened his eyes and was greeted with total darkness. Usually he didn't mind the blackness-he even welcomed it some days-but today was different. Today, it seemed to be a perfect representation of his mood and of the outlook of the day ahead. Totally awful, miserable, horrendous, _scary_.

His arse was so sore-not just a smarting pain like after you stub your toe; this was a jolting, screeching pain that never dulled. Thankfully, though, whatever it was he had been given had worn off; he could feel each and every one of his limbs, and his thoughts were clear. Well, as clear as they could be after what had happened.

John rolled over onto his side, careful of the aching lower half of his body, and glanced at his bedside clock. It was ten thirty-two. He'd barely been asleep two hours. He sighed and threw his legs over the side of the bed; he was exhausted, but there was no way he'd get back to sleep.

Sherlock. Where was Sherlock? Sleeping? Walking around London? With his brother? Getting high? John stood up and slowly, delicately, began hobbling towards his door. Every step brought another flash of pain through his body, but he managed to grit his teeth and bite back a moan. He pulled his bedroom door open and was greeted with three things: one, a blast of sunlight filtering in through the living room windows, two, the strongest scent of cigarette smoke he'd ever smelled in his life, and three, the feeling that the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. He tied his robe tighter around his small frame and craned his head to see where the cold temperature and smell were coming from.

His eyes settled upon the source immediately. Sherlock was sitting in the open window, his feet propped up against one side and his back against the other. His legs were bent so far that it looked almost painful. He had pulled the desk chair up next to him and stacked some books on top of it, and John saw that, on top of the books, there were two empty cigarette boxes and one unopened. Sherlock had a cigarette in his hand currently, long and white, and was taking a long, slow drag on it.

John opened his mouth to say-well, he wasn't sure what, but something-but Sherlock beat him to it. "I suppose," he said calmly as the smoke billowed out of his lips, "that you have some sort of an idea as to what exactly it was we were each drugged with. I suspect you're a victim of flunitrazepam or some similar substance, whereas I myself was injected with a stimulant, most likely cocaine."

John nodded slowly. He was several feet away from Sherlock, but he didn't feel like the other man wanted him to come any closer-Sherlock hadn't even glanced in his direction yet. "Yes, I had guessed as much."

"Of course you had," Sherlock said coldly. His voice was almost a growl. He turned his neck to be looking even further out the window and flapped his cigarette in the direction of the table. "Something for you on the table."

The only thing that hadn't been there from earlier this morning was the newspaper. John raised his eyebrows. _Why does he want me to have the newspaper_? "The post?" he clarified.

Sherlock only grunted in response as John stepped closer to the table and picked up the bundle of pages. There were some black circles that caught his eye; the front page was the flat listings, and six-no, seven-of the ads had been circled. All were within his price range, all were in London…_what?_

"You want me to leave?" John asked, his voice quiet. _Quite a thing to do to a man you've just raped-get him out of your life. _

"What?" Sherlock said, finally turning to look at John. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were bloodshot. "No! Of course not…I just thought that…well…that you…"

John shook his head and dropped the paper back onto the table. "I'm not leaving." Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with this newfound knowledge, so he turned away from John and resumed staring out the window. John chewed on his bottom lip nervously as he waited for Sherlock to respond. Only somewhat not surprisingly, the detective never uttered a word of response, just kept his gaze locked towards the outside world and the cigarette moving continuously to and away from his lips.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Sherlock immediately answered in a gruff voice. That was it. That was all he said.

John sighed and made his way into the kitchen to make his morning coffee and pretend like it was a morning like every other. Clearly, Sherlock wasn't making the same attempt. Smoking two packs of cigarettes in two hours, sitting in an open window when it was barely five degrees outside, being even less sociable than normal. Christ. What next?

John reached into the cabinet and pulled out the bag of coffee grounds, then lifted his mug from the dish drainer, only to promptly drop both when he heard Sherlock's soft voice from the doorframe:

"Do _you_ want to talk about it?"

John and Sherlock both dropped to their hands and knees and started scooping coffee grounds and shattered glass into a large, condensed mound. John curled his toes at the pain that this position brought him, but he was determined not to let Sherlock know how he was feeling.

"I'm sorry," the detective mumbled.

John scoffed. "For what? _I'm_ the one who dropped them."

Sherlock's hand froze and he looked up at John with a look in his eyes that John had never seen before-helplessness. Pure and absolute vulnerability. Sherlock's lower lip was quivering so slightly that John initially thought he'd only imagined it, but when the motion continued, he realized that it was actually happening.

"I'm not talking about the coffee, John."

And then John knew. He knew how Sherlock was feeling at that moment-even worse, perhaps, than he was. John wasn't the only victim here-Sherlock had to live with the knowledge that he had raped his best friend, his only friend. What had the last two hours been like for the detective? Sitting in the window, smoking, waiting for John to wake up and scream at him, call him a monster, tell him he never wanted to see him again? None of that was going to happen.

"It wasn't your fault," John told him. His voice was almost embarrassingly soft. "You…You couldn't control yourself. And I couldn't do anything to defend myself. I was-"

"I don't need a recount of the events, John, I was there." Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut; his eyebrows were deeply furrowed. The situation was causing him to be obviously disquieted. "I didn't…I couldn't…" He locked eyes with John, looked at him pleadingly. "I remember everything exactly as it happened…the last two hours, I've…I've been playing it over and over again in my mind. John, I knew what I was doing. I went in your room with the intention of…having sex. But it wasn't until I saw you crying that I realized _what_ I was doing. I…I had no control over it."

John put his hand on the other man's bony shoulders; he'd never heard Sherlock sound so lost, and it was starting to worry him. "I know, Sherlock," he said gently, but firmly. "I know."

John wasn't sure how it happened, but the next thing he knew, he was leaning against the cabinet, and Sherlock was leaning against him. Sherlock's head was on John's left shoulder which, because of his old injury, wasn't the ideal place, but John didn't have the heart to ask him to move. Sherlock was gripping John's left arm; his own arm had wrapped around John's, and then his other hand was on top of John's.

_Do something!_ John thought to himself. _He's never this open with his feelings…he's a mess. Do something, goddammit; cheer him up. Convince him that it wasn't his fault._

John cleared his throat. "Well, um…what do you say we get some breakfast?"

Sherlock pressed his face further into John's shoulder; his mop of curly hair was right under John's chin. Sherlock didn't answer his question and, for a moment, John thought he'd nodded off. Slowly, he lifted his arm out of Sherlock's grip. The action earned him a questioning and slightly disappointed look from the detective, but it lasted only a moment before John wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders.

"How did it happen, Sherlock?"

He hadn't meant to ask. It was still so fresh in their minds, it was still eating at both of them, but he couldn't wait any longer. He had to know. _Someone _had come into their home and given them both a different drug-who did it, and why?

Sherlock sighed, and John felt his breath flitting over his chest. "I don't know."

John didn't know what he'd expected Sherlock to say, but it wasn't that. "You don't know?" he asked incredulously. "You _always_ know. And if you don't, you deduce, and then you guess."

Sherlock shook his head. "There was no evidence left. I've checked."

"They had to have some sort of goal in mind. I mean, what, you think someone would come in here and drug us just for a laugh? Could it be the bomber, then? He never did give us the fifth pip. Maybe-"

Sherlock, one hand on John's knee and another on the floor, pushed himself up. "I don't know, John. You may be right, but I'm not sure." He picked up his scarf, which was bunched up on the kitchen table, and wrapped it around his neck.

"Where are you going?"

"The hospital called while you were asleep," Sherlock answered. "Mycroft is awake. Are you coming?"

"If it's all the same to you-" John said as he took Sherlock's offered hand and pulled himself off the floor-"I think I'll just stay home for a bit."

Sherlock nodded. "All right. But you will call me if you need anything, correct?"

"Sure," John said with a shrug. "What is it you think I could be needing?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to shrug. "I don't know. Just…anything."

Sherlock helped John sweep up the coffee grounds and broken glass on the floor, then he shut the living room window and pulled his coat over his shoulders. He went outside and caught the first cab to pass the flat. Once inside, he wrote a text to Jim.

**We need to talk. Meet me in the canteen at noon.**

**/break\**

The cafeteria wasn't as crowded as Sherlock had been expecting, which was disappointing. Despite Jim's ability to do anything he wanted, no matter the circumstances or the people involved, Sherlock still knew he would have felt more at ease being in a crowded, public place.

He was sitting in a booth in the corner next to a window. The closest people were twelve tables away, two elderly women and a man. _They_ certainly wouldn't be any help if chaos were to break out. He was clenching the steaming cup of coffee in his hands so hard that his knuckles were paled.

"I'm quite surprised you texted me," he heard Jim say, then he felt his seat dip as Jim sat down beside him. "I expected you to have a huge mess to clean up."

Sherlock ignored him. "You had no reason to bring my brother into this. You-"

"Uh-uh, Sherlock," Jim said, wagging his finger. "You're wrong. I had every reason. You see, a certain someone told another certain someone that they were in love with them. And, well, I wasn't too happy about it."

Sherlock's gaze never the point directly in front of him; he wasn't going to look at Jim, he _wasn't_. "You didn't waste any time, did you? It was less than half an hour after you left that you shot him."

"Well, technically, _I_ didn't shoot him," Jim said with a sneer. "He was asking too many questions."

"So now what? You know, of course, that he's still alive. What are you going to do? Kill him?"

Jim shook his head. "Not if you be a good boy and tell him to keep his abnormally large nose out of _our _business. If you don't then, yes, I'm afraid I have no other choice."

"Why did you do it?" Sherlock asked, forgetting about his refusal to make eye contact with the other man. "I've run through every possible explanation, and none of them make sense. You like to make sense, so why doesn't this?"

Jim didn't need to ask Sherlock what he meant by 'it'. He shrugged. "I was horny, and there aren't any good pornos on the net. Johnny-boy is a bit too old for my taste, but you made up for it. _Christ_!" he exclaimed with a wide grin. "You were a fucking _animal_! Oh, but good job not telling him who I was-I wouldn't have appreciated that very much. You know how much I like to keep myself a secret."

"You promised me you'd leave him out of this."

"No, Sherlock. I promised you that if you did everything I told you to, I wouldn't kill him or touch a hair on his head. Technically, I did neither." He reached under the table and let his fingers trail up Sherlock's left leg, until he got to the man's slim thigh. He squeezed it, then let his hand dip against the inner thigh for only a split-second before he squeezed Sherlock's groin. Jim leaned against Sherlock's shoulder and whispered into his ear, "You are _very_ fortunate that I'm a man of my word."

Sherlock clenched Jim's wrist tightly. "Stop it."

Jim chuckled. "Now you don't really want that, do you? My dear Sherlock. Why do you lie to yourself? I know you've thought about it-about what we could be together. Can you imagine? We could do _anything_ we wanted, to anyone, and no one, no one, would be able to stop us." He licked behind Sherlock's ear hungrily, then bit hard on the lobe. He applied more pressure to Sherlock's groin and felt the man's cock slowly, but surely, squirm to life. Jim moaned approvingly. "Ah, yes. You _love_ this. Just imagine it: you and I. Never bored. Never surrounded by fools. Taking the world by storm, just the two of us. And then at the end of the day, we'd lie in bed together, and you'd play the violin for me as I sucked your cock-" Sherlock hissed at this-"and then you could suck mine while I played the piano, just for you. Don't act like you don't want this."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. His eyes were clenched tightly shut, and he was biting his bottom lip. "I…don't…"

"Shh. People are so bloody stupid. _John_ is so bloody stupid. You don't _really _want to condemn yourself to that kind of life, do you? Surrounded with idiots, who can't figure out the simplest things on their own?"

Sherlock tightened his grip on Jim's wrist, and Jim found himself biting his tongue-before, it had been a minor inconvenience, but now, it was starting to hurt.

"Let go of me," he said calmly. Sherlock did, but not before forcefully pushing Jim's hand away from his crotch. His erection was tenting his pants; Jim had clearly left his mark. Again.

"Good boy," Jim said with a cocky grin. "If you hadn't have done what I said, this hospital would have another patient to look after."

"You don't want me to come tonight. Why?"

Jim took a long drink of Sherlock's coffee. "I don't need a reason, do I?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This is going nowhere. We're finished."

"I couldn't agree more!" Jim said cheerfully as he stood. Glancing at his watch, his smile widened. "Ah! What perfect timing! Moran has a batch of new recruits that need to be assignments." He bent down and kissed Sherlock's temple. "Until next time, love."

As Jim turned and began to walk away from the table, he stopped when he heard Sherlock speaking. "Jim."

Jim turned and, grinning, looked at the detective. "Yes?"

Sherlock was staring into his mug, gripping it tightly. "I've never killed before," he said, in a soft but determined voice. "But I think you'd be an excellent place to start."

Jim snorted with amusement. Oh, this was just _too_ good. "Go visit your brother, Sherlock. And give him my regards."

**Thanks for reading! I hope none of the characters were _too _ooc ;)**


	14. Chapter 14

**So sorry this took me forever to get up...classes are really getting hard now! I like this chapter, there's a bit of Mycroft, tiny bit of Sarah, and some Lestrade. I'm really starting to like Lestrade, he's a pretty cool dude. And there's a tiny bit of Sherlock/John 'flirting'...they're getting close, people! lol. Thanks for reading, and, as always, reviews and feedback is appreciated :)**

Mycroft, other than looking a bit sallow and exerted, seemed to be wholly alert when Sherlock entered the room. He was wearing a neck brace, open a bit in the back to help the surgical wound air-dry.

"You couldn't have shown up five minutes sooner?" he asked, a teasing note on his voice. "I'm of no use to anybody lying in this hospital."

"And whining about it won't get you out any sooner," Sherlock retorted. He pulled the metal chair next to Mycroft's bedside and sat down next to him. "How do you feel?"

Mycroft frowned. "Worried. Who is he?"

Despite the fact that Sherlock had been dreading having to explain Jim to his brother, he found himself smirking at Mycroft's ignorance. "You mean you don't _know_? I think you're losing your touch, brother."

"No games, Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly. "I'm not in the mood. _Who is he_?"

Sherlock ignored him. "You know, I'm not sure which hurts you the worse. Being shot in the head, or having to ask me about something that you can't figure out on your own."

_That's enough, now. Don't take it overboard._

"Sherlock-"

"He's…an acquaintance," Sherlock muttered. _That's an excellent non-committal answer. _"You don't need to concern yourself with him."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose to his forehead. "Don't need to concern myself? Who said I was concerned?"

"The bags under your eyes," Sherlock answered calmly. "You haven't been sleeping. An outsider might think that this was because you were preoccupied with a particularly troublesome element in your job, but, well, I know better than that. Nothing as mundane as your _work_ would ever keep you from getting your twelve hours of beauty sleep." Sherlock leaned forward and let his elbows rest on the bed, then steepled his fingers together and pressed them to his lips. "Mycroft…I know this goes against everything you believe, protecting me, protecting England, and so on and so forth, but…" he sighed. "I need you to leave this one alone."

"I see. And why is that?"

"Because there's more at stake here than you realize!" Sherlock spat, unable to contain his frustration any longer. "Mycroft, peoples' _lives_ are at risk! Jim wouldn't hesitate at killing thousands of people if he thought his plans were going to be disturbed, and I-"

Mycroft waved his finger and smiled mocking. "Uh, uh-_Jim_?"

"Moriarty. The one you abducted."

The elder Holmes rolled his eyes. "I know who he is, Sherlock. You call him Jim? A bit attached to his alter ego, are you?"

"Shut up. It's habitual."

"Of course it is. And, Sherlock, since when have you cared about peoples' lives being at risk? You _don't_ care. So why now?"

_Because. This time it's not just anyone, it's _John.

It was almost like Mycroft read his thoughts. He smiled with mock sweetness and said, his voice even silkier than normal, "Ah, so that's it. Dear, old, Doctor Watson. I knew this would happen."

Sherlock scoffed. "No you didn't."

"Not this particular situation, of course. But I knew that, eventually, someone would use your new associate against you. After all, he is the only living thing that you give a damn about."

Sherlock stood up and looked down at his brother, annoyed. "Keep talking like that and you'll make it a true statement," he said coldly. As he pulled his coat onto his shoulders, he said, "Be on your guard. He won't hesitate to finish what he started."

**/break\**

Sherlock's lap was warm the whole time he was in the cab returning to Baker Street-he had left the hospital and walked down to his favorite Chinese restaurant; it was a small, hole-in-the-wall operation, but the people were all business, no chatting, and they were prompt and never got his order wrong. Now he had a huge bag of dim sum, egg rolls, and rice sitting on his legs.

_If a man has a good Chinese place close to his home, a man has everything that he'll ever need. _

Sherlock smiled at the proverb-Mycroft had told him that when they were youths. His elder brother had come home to visit his first year of university and had taken Sherlock to his first-ever Chinese takeout, and he'd been hooked ever since.

_You're lucky he's alive now, you do know that, right? Jim could've…_

Sherlock shuddered at the thought of all that Jim Moriarty could've done to his brother, to John, to _him_.

His chest clenched at the thought of John. What had he been doing while he was visiting Mycroft? Pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in Mrs. Hudson's floor? ? Cursing? Writing on his blog? Crying?

_No, not crying. John's not a crier. Sure, he did a bit last night, but…who wouldn't?_

Two tears, one from each eye, slid down John Watson's face as he sat at the kitchen table with his head propped up in his hand. His other hand was resting on top of his cup of tea, gone cold. He'd made it an hour before and had simply forgotten about it.

_Stop it. What kind of a man are you? Sobbing like a child, don't be such a pussy._

_Oh, God, I'm pathetic._

This thought made more tears follow in the trails of the first two. John didn't even bother wiping them away, he knew that more would follow right behind. Fortunately, he managed to refrain from whimpering, the only physical manifestation of his dreadful mood was his ragged breathing and wracking shoulders.

"John?"

_Bloody hell._

The voice had come from right behind him. John wiped his eyes nonchalantly and turned to Sherlock, a small, fake smile plastered onto his face. "Welcome back," he said after clearing his throat. "How is he?"

Sherlock never took his eyes from John's face. He knew, of course. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to tell that John had been crying. "He's…fine." Sherlock set a large white bag on the table, and John could tell from the smell that he'd gotten them Chinese for lunch. Then, he did something John didn't expect: Sherlock crouched down next to his chair and looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows.

"What?" John asked him.

Sherlock didn't answer. He shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, John."

John exhaled slowly. "Sherlock, we've been over this, it wasn't-"

"No, no, no, not for that. For this."

And then, before John knew what was happening, the detective had pulled him into a strong embrace, both of his lean, long arms wrapped around John's stout frame. He was half-pulling John out of his chair, but also, by pressing his own body against the doctor's, was helping keep him in it.

John was shocked and almost pushed Sherlock off of him, but then he realized something-something that he never would've expected, not in a million years.

Sherlock was trembling.

It was barely noticeable, more of a quiver than actually shaking, which, John knew, meant that Sherlock was trying as hard as possible to conceal it. Not surprising, since the detective had already touched John more today than he had in the three months they'd known each other before-he was probably embarrassed enough as it was about showing affection, he didn't need to add nervousness to the list.

_I can't push him away. This is so hard for him. If I do it now, he'll never open up to me again._

"Thank you," Sherlock was mumbling into his ear. "For not leaving. Thank you."

John pat Sherlock's back gently, awkwardly. "How could I? You'd be lost without me, remember?"

Sherlock chuckled, and John joined in lightly. "You know, John, you're very loyal, very quickly."

John's ears perked up at Sherlock's observation. Mycroft had said the same thing. What was it about him that made people think he fell for someone overnight? "No, I'm not," he argued.

Sherlock snorted. "You shot a man because you thought he was going to hurt me."

"You're a living, breathing human being, I didn't want you to get hurt!"

"Ah, but you didn't care about _killing_ him?"

John didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. So, he settled for something that he thought would answer Sherlock's question-he wrapped his arms around the detective's shoulders and returned the hug.

He felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder. "I thought not."

"Your brother said the same thing about me," John whispered into his dark curls.

"I know."

"No you don't."

Sherlock chuckled-the deep, reverberating sound that John had come to know meant that Sherlock was truly content. It was the laughter that he saved for John and John alone; he couldn't _possibly_ let anyone else know that he did, indeed, possess human emotions. The coldness, the solitude-that was what made Sherlock Holmes who he was.

Until John Watson had come into the picture.

Sherlock pulled away. "Food's getting cold."

"Right," John said with a nod. "What did you get?"

"Dim sum, spring rolls, rice. The usual. Can you make the tea? I'm going to change."

When Sherlock got into his room, he jerked his coat off and threw it on the bed, then took his time unbuttoning his white shirt. It smelled spicy, regal-like Jim. No doubt some of the man's cologne had rubbed off onto his collar. When his shirt was unbuttoned, Sherlock reached up and gingerly brushed his left earlobe, the one that Jim had attempted to masticate. The area was red and there was a small imprint of teeth left in the cartilage.

_And you liked it_.

_Jim is evil. He's psychotic. He's cruel, venal, ruthless-he's a _genius_. He's _exciting_. He's _gorgeous_. He's right. We could be so much together. We could take over the world. I'd never be bored again. Who would stop us? Lestrade? Mycroft?_

"Tea's ready, Sherlock."

_John._

_John would stop us._

_Or rather…he would try. And then Jim would…_

Sherlock shook his head, as if to clear the thought from his mind. Jim wouldn't hurt John-not as long as Sherlock kept doing anything Jim told him to do. Which, so far, hadn't been that difficult-Jim hadn't really _asked_ him to do anything, he'd forced him.

Sherlock pulled on his short-sleeved teal button-up and thundered downstairs. He was starving; he hadn't eaten in a long time and it was starting to show. The veins in his hands seemed even more prominent than normal, and his cheeks were so sunken that he looked like a corpse. He knew John had noticed but, thankfully, the doctor hadn't said anything about it.

The two ate in relative silence. John asked him how Mycroft was, Sherlock replied "fine". Sherlock asked John if he'd got any work done, and John had answered, "yup".

The rest of the day was uneventful. The two men sat in their respective chairs and read, John from a recent medical journal and Sherlock from any newspaper he could find in the flat. He wanted to learn all he could about Moriarty, and learning about all of his crimes would be a good place to start. It wasn't difficult to tell which were orchestrated by him-they were the ones that were unsolved, carried out without a shred of evidence left behind. Sherlock was the only one who'd ever been able to figure them out, but it wasn't until the past few days that he realized the magnitude of the situation he was in.

"You busy tomorrow night?"

Sherlock smirked as he looked up at John over his newspaper. "Depends."

"Sarah and I are going to Da Mario's. You know, dinner, dancing. I know it's not your thing, but-"

_No, John. That is _definitely_ not my thing_. "Sorry," Sherlock said, "I think…Jim wants to go out."

"Well, if you had've let me finish, I was going to invite you both. You know, a double date."

"We're not dating."

The words had escaped Sherlock's mouth before he could stop them, and he sighed inwardly when he saw John's eyebrows furrow. "I mean…we are, but…he takes it a bit more seriously than I do."

"I see," John muttered. "You don't love him, then?"

Sherlock looked hard at John and said softly, "You know I don't."

John cleared his throat nervously. "Well, yes. I-I suppose that I do. A shame you won't come, though. Sarah likes you."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. But, you know, it might just have something to do with the fact that you saved her life and all."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm sure of it."

John waited a beat before saying, "Come on, Sherlock. You need to get out and do something _fun_. Something to make people see that you're not just another genius sociopath-"

"I am a genius sociopath."

"But that's not _all_ you are," John argued. "You're a good man, Sherlock. Now," he leaned forward and picked Sherlock's phone off of the coffee table and tossed it to the detective, "call Jim. Nine thirty, Da Mario's."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but reluctantly took his phone from John and dialed Jim's number. The man answered on the second ring.

"_Why hello, dear! What a pleasant surprise this is! I'll be happy to come tomorrow night. Nine thirty?"_

Sherlock nodded as his grip around the phone tightened. "Hi, Jim, it's me. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with John and his girlfriend tomorrow? They're going to Da Mario's."

"_I already told you I would!"_ Jim said with a childish giggle. _"Oh, but I suppose you can't let Johnny-boy know that I can hear every word you say and see everything you do, now, can you? I imagine he'd be quite upset if he were to find out about that. Yes, Sherlock, I'll be there. And don't worry-I'll be on my _best_ behavior."_

**/break\**

Sherlock Holmes went to bed at ten o'clock, and he didn't wake until noon the next day. His head was throbbing mercilessly, and he felt like he could throw up at any second. Jim had given him cocaine injections the last two days; he needed another, and soon.

He cursed himself for throwing away what little bit he had hidden in the flat-after Lestrade's drug bust when John first moved in, he wasn't going to risk keeping it there anymore. He no longer had any connections in the city; Mycroft had done an _excellent _job cleaning up the streets. Sherlock knew that he could find one if he put his mind to it, but he was just _so_ tired.

Thankfully John was at work, so he couldn't see Sherlock bent over the toilet throwing up every hour, he couldn't see Sherlock shivering while pouring sweat, he couldn't see Sherlock holding himself and rocking back and forth in an attempt to forget about the aching in his limbs.

Jim could see, though. Sitting in his darkened library, with his fingers tented together and his eyes narrowed, he sneered at his computer screen.

_Admit it, Sherlock Holmes. You need me._

John and Sarah showed up at Da Mario looking like the perfect couple. Sarah had her arm linked in John's, and they were giggling as they walked through the door.

_So mundane_, Sherlock thought to himself. But that didn't get rid of the thought rattling around in the very back corner of his mind-_I wish it were me with him._

"Hello again," Sarah said to Sherlock when they reached his table. She reached out her hand to him and he, begrudgingly, took it with a mirthless smile.

"Sarah."

"John's kept me up to date on all you work," she said as she sat down across from him. "Nothing new, though? Must be boring."

Sherlock snorted. "You have no idea."

_Boring, no. Not this time._

"Where's Jim?" John asked him as he sat down across from the empty chair beside Sherlock. "He is coming, isn't he?"

Then there was a pale hand on John's shoulder, squeezing it genially, and Sherlock had stood up so forcefully that his chair had flung backwards.

_Don't touch him!_

Jim smirked at Sherlock, but spoke to John. "Don't worry, Doctor Watson. He was telling the truth, I'm here."

John stood up and reached out to shake Jim's hand in an attempt to ignore Sherlock's even odder-than-usual behavior. "Hello again. And it's John, please." He motioned to Sarah. "This is Sarah Sawyer. Sarah, this is Jim-sorry, what's your last name?"

Jim took Sarah's hand and brought it up to his lips, then kissed the fingers lightly. "A pleasure, my dear. My name is Jim Myles."

Jim was, to put it mildly, the highlight of the evening. He captivated John and Sarah with stories from his university days, how he'd been asked to serve on the board of directors, his first roommate who slept with a different girl every night.

The food had come and gone, and now it was Sarah's turn to talk about her uni experience-thankfully, because Jim had been so charismatic, neither Sarah nor John was paying Sherlock much attention, so they didn't notice that he was shivering, didn't notice how he hadn't said a single word, didn't notice that he had only nibbled on his pizza.

Naturally, as soon as Sherlock realized this, John looked at him, concerned, and held up his hand. "Hold up a minute, Sarah. Sherlock, are you all right?"

_Damn_.

Now there were six eyes all looking at him intently. Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to roll his, but regretted it instantly-the motion made his headache worse.

"Fine."

Jim's hand cupped the back of Sherlock's neck. "Sherlock, darling, you look awful. You're sweating, are you hot? Take your sweater off!"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm…fine."

John stood up and, leaning over the table, placed his palm against Sherlock's forehead. "You're burning up!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I'm _not_ sick!" Sherlock argued, but, of course, no one listened to him.

"We need to get you home," John said as he pulled his coat off the back of his chair. "Come on, Sherlock. Sarah, I'm sorry we won't get to dance, but-"

"Whoa, whoa, John, hold on," Jim interrupted. He stood and motioned for John to sit back down. "He's my boyfriend, I can take care of him. You two stay, have a good time. I'll take him home."

John looked totally shocked. "Really? You don't mind?"

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted to _insist_ that John take him home, but one look at his flat mate's expression made him keep his mouth shut. John looked so excited by the idea of spending more time with Sarah.

_After all you've put him through the past few days, let him have this. Jim's not going to hurt you, not with John coming home so soon._

"Of course not," Jim was saying. He linked his arm through Sherlock's and helped the detective stand up. "Don't worry, I promise I'll get him there in one piece."

Just as Sherlock expected, there wasn't a cab waiting for them outside, but the black Maserati he had come to loathe. Jim helped him inside with more gentleness than he had expected.

"Baker Street, Moran."

"No," Sherlock moaned. "I want to see Lestrade."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Lestrade? Why?"

"I want a case," Sherlock lied. "Something to…something to keep my mind off this."

Jim chuckled. "You don't need to do, my dear." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small brown case, which he flipped open. He pulled out a long syringe and held it out to Sherlock. "Take it."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "No."

"Come on. Take it. I promise, there's nothing in it. Just pure, one-hundred percent cocaine."

Sherlock chuckled, clutching his stomach in pain. "_Please_. You think I trust you?" He slapped Jim's hand away, sending the syringe spiraling to the floor. "Take me to Lestrade."

**/break\**

Detective Inspector Lestrade hadn't been home in two days. He was far behind in signing off on incident reports, evidence documentation, witness interviews, forensics analyses-Sherlock's bomber was keeping him busy. There still hadn't been a fifth, at least, not one that Sherlock had told him about. Of course, Sherlock had been busy with his own problems-his brother getting shot? Dreadful business.

"I need to see Lestrade."

_Speak of the devil_.

"He's busy," he heard Donovan tell Sherlock, none too kindly. "Too busy for _you_."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He didn't know which he was more annoyed with, Sherlock or Donovan. He stood up and walked over to his door and pulled it open half-way, leaning out into the hallway.

"Sherlock. What is it?"

Donovan rolled her eyes and crossed her arms as Sherlock turned to face Lestrade.

"I have a question."

Lestrade licked his dry lips as he waited for Sherlock to continue. He didn't look well-his hair was wet, matted onto his pale face, and his hands were trembling.

"Yes?" Lestrade prodded him after a moment's silence. "What do you need?"

Sherlock frowned and shifted his weight. "I suppose it's not so much of a question as a request. I…I need your help."

"_I…I need your help. I…I need your help. I…I need your help. I-"_

Lestrade looked behind Sherlock when he heard Anderson laughing, his open phone in his hand. "I got it!" Anderson was saying to Donovan. "Listen, I got it!"

"_I…I need your help."_

Sherlock looked positively disgusted at Anderson's childish display, and Lestrade couldn't blame him. He reached out his hand towards Anderson. "Give it."

The smile instantly dropped from Anderson's face. "What?"

"I said, give it to me!" Lestrade repeated, more forcefully this time. "_Now_, Anderson!"

Anderson, his eyebrows furrowed, looked at Donovan pleadingly before dropping his phone into Lestrade's open palm. "There. Happy?"

Lestrade's next move elicited a gasp from Donovan and caused Sherlock's mouth to open slightly. Lestrade took the phone and, with one hand on either side, snapped it clear in half, then dropped it on the floor and stomped on the piece containing the SIM card until it was nothing more than rubble.

"The man comes here asking for help and you insult him?" Lestrade asked in disbelief. "Of all the stupid, childish things-"

He paused when he felt a hand on his upper arm. "Leave it," Sherlock told him before tugging his sleeve in the direction of the DI's office. "Come on."

Lestrade followed Sherlock into his office, then closed and locked the door behind him. "Just tell me one thing," he said as he moved to his chair, motioning for Sherlock to sit in the other. "Are you all right? You look awful."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "I've been better."

Lestrade nodded. "A rather vague answer, not surprising coming from you." He leaned back and crossed his fingers. "What can I do for you?"

"Cocaine," Sherlock stated simply. "I need some. I'm sure your evidence room is full of it."

Lestrade was chuckling. "Seriously? You just come in here asking me for cocaine?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

"Sherlock, despite the fact that you've been invaluable to me, and despite the fact that you've helped us solve nearly a hundred cases in the five years I've known you, I can't give you cocaine. You know that. So what are you doing here?"

Sherlock stood up and moved to the window, where he stared intently for a few seconds, his hands in his pockets. "I really am here for just that," he admitted. "There are some…mitigating circumstances."

"Such as?"

"Such as the fact that I have involuntarily been injected with cocaine twice these past two days!" Sherlock snarled, spinning around to glare at Lestrade. "And thanks to my _dear_ brother, I have no local sources. Surely you-"

"Wait, wait, wait. Involuntarily injected? What the hell do you mean by that?"

Sherlock chuckled sarcastically. "Even someone as mindless as _you_ should be able to figure out what I mean. They injected me without my consent. I did not give them permission. They did it despite the fact that I didn't want them to. It-"

"All right, all right!" Lestrade interrupted, his temper rising. "I know _what_ you meant. Who did it?"

The smirk vanished from Sherlock's face. "I can't say."

"Can't say?" Lestrade repeated. "Why the bloody hell not?"

"It's too risky. I can't let you know. They would kill you."

Lestrade didn't seem affected by the words; it certainly wasn't the first time he'd been threatened. "Ok then. Why are they injecting you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "For fun, I suppose." He brought a hand to his warm forehead and swayed slightly. His eyes drooped shut, and it was only a second later that he felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, leading him to the couch in the corner of the room.

"Hold up," the older man was saying. "Lie down."

" 'm fine…"

"No, you're not," Lestrade argued. "You're going through withdrawal. You need to lie down."

Sherlock did, and within seconds he was sleeping. Lestrade lifted his coat from the back of his chair and draped it over the man, then sat back down at his desk.

"Now, where was I?"


	15. Chapter 15

**I got this chapter up as soon as was physically possible-between working 28 hours this week, going to class, writing three papers, and doing a take-home test, it was hard to get something decent written. This is kind of 'meh' when Jim comes in, in my opinion, but I think you'll love the ending :) And for those of you that read _Holmes is Where the Heart Is_, I'm going to try to work on chapter two this weekend. I hope you enjoy, and, as always, reviews and comments are appreciated! Thank you!**

It was painfully obvious to Lestrade that he had absolutely no idea what to do for Sherlock as he watched the younger man's forced breathing, the sweat trickling down his face, his eyes crinkling into a stubborn grimace. He was a police officer, not a doctor.

A doctor.

John.

_Bloody hell, Greg. Why didn't you think of it before? Watson. Call Watson._

Lestrade approached Sherlock quietly and knelt down beside him. He wasn't sure if the man was asleep, but, if he was, he certainly didn't want to wake him. He slowly lifted his own coat away from Sherlock's body and reached into the man's coat pockets-damn, it wasn't in either. His pants, then.

He had barely moved Sherlock's coat out of the way before he felt long, cold fingers wrap around his wrist.

"Would you care to tell me exactly what it is that you're doing?"

Lestrade snorted, grinning, and leaned back on his heels. "You're a detective, you figure it out."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Things aren't always as they appear," he said coolly.

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, well, you're right about that. I was going to call your doctor friend. You look bloody awful."

Sherlock pushed Lestrade's hand away. "Well, I feel fine. And I'd thank you to keep to your own business."

Lestrade glared at him incredulously. "Me, keep to my own business? You seem to be forgetting that _you're_ the one who came to _me_."

"For cocaine," Sherlock spat. "Not for you to mother me. I have enough people doing that already."

Shaking his head, Lestrade said, "No, no…I don't think it's that. I don't think you want John to know."

"Is that so." It was a statement, not a question.

"Well, why else would you have come to me? I know you don't want cocaine, Sherlock. You've been clean from almost the first time I met you. So, what, someone starts injecting you with it, all of a sudden you're going to fall back into old habits? I don't think so. Your brother's in the hospital, so, out of the goodness of your tiny, minuscule, perhaps non-existent heart, you're not going to bother him with it, because you know it'll make him worry. But why haven't you asked your friend the doctor? Because you don't want him to know." Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. "But why? _Why_ don't you want him to know?"

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly as he stood up and headed for the door. "Very good, Lestrade. If you keep that up, you might be a good detective someday."

Lestrade ignored his comment. "Sherlock. Just…tell me what you need. I want to help you."

Sherlock had just wrapped his hand around the doorknob. He paused, but didn't turn around. "You can't help me," he said softly. "Not this time."

"_Why_?" Lestrade pressed. "Tell me why."

Sherlock remained silent. Lestrade sighed heavily and took a step closer to him. "Look, Sherlock. Just because you don't give a damn about anyone doesn't mean that no one gives a damn about you. As much as you annoy-and embarrass-me, I don't want you to get hurt."

Sherlock still didn't look at him, but he shook his head, almost sadly. "Well, Lestrade…you can't always get what you want." Then, he thought to himself:

_You know that better than anyone else._

Sherlock stumbled out the doors of the police department. Had it not been for the parking meter on the side of the road, he would have collapsed. He propped himself up on the meter and, through drooping eyes, tried to seek out a taxi to take him home. _There's one…there goes another…oh, I need to wave them over, don't I?_

"Sherlock!"

_Maybe I should just walk home. _

"Sherlock!"

_I know! I'll call John. He'll come pick me up. _

Sherlock managed to slowly lift his arm to his pants pockets, where he found, to his frustration, that his phone wasn't in them. He checked his coat pockets, only to find the same thing.

_Shit. That means that Jim-_

"_Sherlock_."

Sherlock flinched. The person who had said his name was now standing right beside him, their hand upon his shoulder. His eyes squinted shut, and he felt his hands curl into fist involuntarily.

"I've been calling for you," Jim told him, his voice uncharacteristically level. "Did you not hear me?"

Sherlock inhaled, a slow, rickety breath. "What do you want?"

Jim shrugged. "I was worried about you."

Sherlock snorted and allowed a small smirk to flash across his face. Jim frowned.

"No, seriously." Jim moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to squeeze the back of the detective's neck, then run his thumb over it. "I didn't want to leave you there, but…well…"

"I understand," Sherlock wheezed. "That wouldn't be enough _fun_ for you. You don't want me to be affected by something you're not giving me, you want me to be affected by something you are. It's not enough that you-"

"That's not it at all!" Jim snarled. "It was…well, it was Moran. I don't think he'd be thrilled with the idea of me nursing you back to health."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I can't say that I'm particularly fond of that idea, either."

"Yes, well, I'm not giving you a choice. Come on."

He turned, guiding Sherlock gently in the same direction. Sherlock immediately stepped away. "Leave me alone," he said. His voice was meek, but Jim could tell that the man's eyes were full of rage. "I need to get home. John…John…"

"Has called you almost twenty times, and has sent you twenty-six text messages. He called Lestrade but, lucky for you, I intercepted the call. I don't know why you came to him, Sherlock. He's so _stupid_."

Sherlock shrugged tiredly. "And yet he's still a notch above the rest of the force." Jim smirked, and Sherlock felt his eyes narrow. "What?"

Jim shook his head, still grinning. "Nothing, just…just don't let John here you say that. He might get jealous."

Sherlock chuckled. "I think not." He held out his hand to Jim. "My phone. And my wallet."

Jim reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out Sherlock's mobile. He held it up. "If I give you this," he said coolly, "you have to come with me."

Sherlock dropped his hand immediately. "No."

_You fool. He's going to make you come with him whether you agree to or not. But if you go willingly, if you keep him in a good mood, he'll be less inclined to hurt you, or anyone else. Just _do_ it._

"Fine," Sherlock said quickly. "Fine, fine. Where are we going?"

Jim didn't seem to notice Sherlock's sudden change of mind-either he didn't notice or he didn't care. In all probability, he was probably just happy to be getting what he wanted. Grinning, he dropped Sherlock's phone into the detective's pocket, then linked their arms together. "No place that you'll feel _uncomfortable_, my dear. The Refinery. On Brook Street." He pat Sherlock's arm. "We'll get you a mud treatment, a massage, body wrap, and then I'll finish you off in the hot tub. Trust me, you'll feel much better when we're through."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked. "You're trying to distract me, aren't you?" His eyebrows furrowed. "But from what? What do you have going on?"

Jim's smile widened. "Maybe I just wanted to see you naked."

Sherlock shook his head as they walked. "I've told you before, you like to make sense. That doesn't. If you wanted to see me naked, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have-" Sherlock paused mid-sentence, and he felt a slight brush creeping to the tips of his ears.

_Shit. Definitely didn't mean to say _that_._

Jim laughed-not the evil life that Sherlock had been hearing the past few days; this was the same laugh that _Jim_ had had, sweet, timid Jim, before all this madness began. Before he realized what he was doing, Sherlock was smiling, and had grabbed the hand that Jim had wrapped around his arm and pulled it down into his coat pocket, where he laced their fingers together.

They walked a few yards in silence. The salon wasn't far, and Sherlock had to admit that the idea of spending some time getting massaged and then soaking in a hot tub sounded like a great idea. And now that Jim mentioned the idea of seeing him in the nude, Sherlock couldn't stop picturing his hands running over Jim's naked body.

"And then he said it was because a flock of ravens is called a murder!" Jim was saying, chuckling. "Did you know that? I had absolutely no idea. Oh, and a pack of rhinos is called a crash. And a group of unicorns is a blessing. If-"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and cocked his head in Jim's direction. "Don't tell me you believe in unicorns," he said, smirking.

Jim laughed sheepishly. "You're right, I don't. But recently I've…well…" He ran his free hand through his short hair. "I've realized that things are happening that I never thought were possible."

"Such as?"

Jim shrugged. "Nothing important, really. It's just…I'm jealous of somebody. I've never been jealous before in my life. If somebody had something that I wanted, I went out and I got it. Especially now, since I have more money than the Bank of England. And, to be honest, I've never met somebody that I thought was superior to myself. Certainly no one worthy of being jealous of. Until now."

"Why are you jealous of them? What makes this situation so different from any other? Can't you just take what you want?"

Jim shook his head. "No. I can't. Not really, anyways. Oh yes, I could take it, but it would never be really _mine_ because it belongs to this other man. This other _lucky_ man."

The two had finally arrived at The Refinery. The walk had made Sherlock a bit lightheaded, and Jim seemed to notice, as he let go of Sherlock's hand and wrapped his arm around the detective's waist. "You'll feel better soon," he whispered. He told the man at the front desk everything that he wanted, and the man asked him if he had an appointment.

Jim smiled genially. "An appointment, no, not as such. But there might just be a five-hundred pound bonus in it for you if you let us in. So what do you say, doll?"

The man smiled at Jim suggestively. "I don't know, _dear_. My parents raised me to not take something for nothing." He leaned over the counter and let his tongue slide slowly over his lips. "Sure, I'll take your money. And I'll let you and your little friend go in. And then I'll do whatever the hell else you want me to do for you."

Jim's smile faded and he shook his head. "Thank you, but, no thanks." He jerked his head in Sherlock's direction. "He's the rather jealous type."

Sherlock wasn't a stranger to spa treatments. He'd been given several massages and detox wraps while at Byron Bay, and they _had_ been rather pleasurable. Jim had helped him undress-his hands were shaking too much to even undo the buttons on his shirt-and then he pulled a math textbook and a spiral notebook out of his shoulder bag.

"I'll be in the lobby," he told Sherlock. "Tell them to come and get me when you're ready for the tub."

When Sherlock first felt the masseur's hands squeezing his shoulder blades, the image of John flashed into his mind. John's rough, calloused hands running over his bare skin, clenching around his tense muscles. He smiled.

_John. I love you._

It happened so suddenly-the image of John in his mind became taller and slimmer, the skin devoid of wrinkles and age, and the hair changed from sandy to dark brown, and the eyes from pale green to black. It was no longer John tending to Sherlock, but Jim. Surprisingly, his touch was equally as gentle, if not more so, than John's had been.

Sherlock's body convulsed in shock. _Jim…what the hell? Where did _that_ come from? No…John…I want John. I _want_ John!_

"Are you all right, Sir?" the masseur asked him, obviously concerned. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"N-No," Sherlock stammered. "I'm all right." He sat up and swung his legs over the table, then reached for the robe hanging on the wall. "I think I'll just head home."

"Sir? Are you sure you're-"

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped at the man. "I'm fine, I just want to go home."

Pulling the robe tighter around him, Sherlock walked as quickly as he could manage to the nearby lobby. Jim was there, just as he'd promised, with the math textbook open in front of him and the notebook open and a pen in his right hand.

"I'm going," Sherlock announced. "I'm going now."

Jim looked up from the book in surprise. "What? You can't possibly be finished already?"

"No, I'm not," Sherlock said. "I don't want this. I don't care what you do to me, but I'm not going to sit here and let you force me into something that-"

He paused when he realized that Jim was smiling.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," Jim said, closing the book and the notebook before placing them back into his bag. "It's just, it took you longer that I was expecting."

_Longer than I was expecting…_"What?"

"Well, I had expected you to fight me," Jim explained. "You didn't." His smile changed into a smirk. "You're getting weak. I knew you would."

He slung his bag over his shoulders and led them out of the building and in the direction they had originally come from.

"If anyone is getting weak, it's you," Sherlock argued. He was struggling to keep up with Jim, though he would never admit it. "Falling in love with me? You're pathetic."

Jim halted so quickly that Sherlock almost slammed into him. He spun around, eyes blazing, and clenched his hands into fists. "What the hell did you say?"

_Oh yes. This is it. This is what you've been waiting for-to confront him. To make him outright angry. To see what he'll do._

"You heard me, I'm not saying it again," Sherlock said stubbornly. "You think you've fallen in love with me. It explains everything."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Does it now?"

"Yes. Why you drugged John and me. Why you came along with me on John and Sarah's date. Why you offered me cocaine, even why you _took me to a spa_. Did you _really _think I was so daft as to not notice it? I've been flirted with enough to recognize when it's happening. You're feeling guilty about everything that you've done, and now you're trying to make it up to me so that I'll give you another chance." He leaned in and whispered, "Don't count on it."

Then Jim had him by the throat and had pushed him up against the spa wall, and Sherlock was gasping for air, trying to force Jim's hands off his neck, trying to breathe, but Jim wasn't having any of it.

"If you _ever_ talk to me like that again, I will kill your dear Doctor Watson in the most heinous and horrid manner that I can think of, and I will force you to watch as the life drains out of him." He cocked his head innocently. "You don't want that, do you, my dear?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He couldn't. Jim's hands were around his neck so tightly that he couldn't even get a breath of air, much less words.

"ANSWER ME!" Jim roared, shaking Sherlock's neck as if he were a rag doll.

Sherlock rocked his head from side to side as much was possible and tried to say 'no', but all he managed was a choked gurgling sound. Fortunately, Jim seemed satisfied. He dropped his hands and stuffed them in his pockets before turning and walking away.

**/break\**

The return to Baker Street would have normally taken Sherlock about ten minutes, but this time, it was almost half an hour before he arrived home. Mrs. Hudson didn't appear to be home, but John was; as soon as Sherlock entered the front door, he could hear his flat mate upstairs pacing across their rooms.

_You know what you have to do, _he told himself as he crept up the stairs. _So just do it. He won't leave you. For God's sakes, you _raped_ him and he didn't leave you, he won't leave you just for talking to him._

_It wasn't my fault that I raped him! _his mind retorted. _This _will _be your fault. You're not under any influences, you're not forced to talk at gunpoint; you have no excuses. Are you sure you want to do this?_

Sherlock let his fingers rest on the doorknob as he took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

_Completely sure._

He pushed open the door. John was in the living room, staring out the window, and instantly turned and stared at Sherlock, eyes wide. Immediately, he began to approach Sherlock.

"John," Sherlock began, having planned out his entire speech in his mind, "I have to apologize for not texting you; I was tied up with-"

He didn't have a chance to finish. All that planning, all that worrying-wasted. John's tough hands were cupping his cheeks, and he had craned the detective's head down and had pressed their lips together firmly.

It wasn't a good kiss, by any means. Sherlock had been totally unprepared; he'd cocked his head a half-inch to the right as John was pulling it down, so now their lips were off centre. Half of John's mouth was on Sherlock's lips, and half of it was kissing the bordering skin.

Sherlock so badly wanted to move his head, to press his lips against John's, instead of keeping it at the odd angle they were at now, but he remained perfectly still.

_Don't. Move. You'll ruin it. He'll realize what he's doing, and he'll stop. Stay perfectly still._

Fortunately, John broke away first, with a sheepish smile and a nervous giggle. "Well, that wasn't exactly as I'd envisioned it," he admitted. "You shouldn't have moved your head."

_What is going on?_

"…John?" Sherlock finally managed to say, softly. "What…what's going on?"

John wiped his lips with the back of his hand; Sherlock could tell that the motion was from nervousness, not from something actually being on his mouth.

"This morning, I realized something," John said. "It was three o'clock, and I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep, because I was too _goddamn_ worried about you. And you know something, Sherlock? Nothing has ever kept me up all night. Nothing, ever. Not finals in school, not dates, not even before I was deployed. But _you-_you have me up all night, nearly every night." Sherlock chuckled at this, and John joined in.

"You and your brother were right," he continued. "I trust you. I don't know why, but I would've trusted you with my life the moment I laid eyes on you. I _shot_ somebody to save you. I could have gone to prison, but I wasn't even thinking about that." He raised one of his hands from Sherlock's cheek to brush a dark curl off the detective's forehead. "All I was thinking was, please, don't let anything happen to him." John shook his head and snorted, amused. "Then last night, when I saw you with Jim…it was all I could do to keep from telling him to get his bloody hands off of you."

Sherlock was smiling now, a real smile, one that didn't show up very often. Usually when Sherlock smiled, it was at a joke or at the expense of someone less intelligent than himself-he never smiled because he was happy, because he never _was_ happy.

Until now.

**Next chapter = their first day together as a couple! Ah, I'm excited to write it!**


	16. Chapter 16

John took Sherlock's right hand in his own. He smiled when he realized that their two hands summed up their entire relationship. John's was rough, tanned, small, worn. Sherlock's, pale, lean, elegant, smooth. Two completely different hands that fit together perfectly.

Two completely different people that fit together perfectly.

"Do you feel all right?" he asked as he lightly squeezed Sherlock's hand. "You still look ill."

Sherlock squeezed his hand back. "I'm better. Now."

The two went into John's bedroom. Sherlock sat on the bed, slowly lifting his legs onto it and lowering his head onto the pillow. He felt happier, yes, but not physically any better than he had before. His head was throbbing and his body felt heavy, weak.

"I'll, um…take your room, then," John said as he pulled the blanket over Sherlock's body. "Unless you want me on the sofa?"

Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. "Don't be daft. I want you here. If you care to join me, that is."

John looked at the other side of the bed. It was only a twin, a tight fit for two people. "Are you sure?"

"Mmm."

Without brushing his teeth, washing his face, changing his pajamas, plugging his mobile phone into its charger, or any of his other nightly routine, John eased himself into the bed as slowly and gently as he could. Sherlock's body was too long for the bed; his feet were hanging off it, but, thankfully, he was skinny. John knew it would be an uncomfortable night, but he didn't care. A small price to pay to be in the same bed as someone he loved, even if he hadn't realized it until that very day.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up after noon. He slid out of bed, grabbing John's robe and slipping his arms into it. It was short on him and baggy, yet the mere fact that it smelled like John comforted him immensely.

John—who was sitting at the desk sipping from a mug of tea and reading the post—stood up when he saw Sherlock come into the living area.

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock, as he lowered himself onto the sofa, grunted, "Fine."

"Let me make you some toast, stay right there."

John hurried into the kitchen. Sherlock could hear him grabbing plates, pulling bread from the bin, pushing down the starter on the toaster.

_Like a mother hen._

John returned in moments, a tall glass of water in one hand and a plate of cut toast in the other. "Here. Eat it slowly and drink every drop of that water." He pulled one of the desk chairs beside the couch and sat down, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced. "I'm glad you slept so much. You nodded off almost right away last night."

"Did I?" Sherlock asked. He took a tiny bite of toast, barely getting past the crust. He felt hungry and nauseous at the same time, then found himself wondering how that was even possible.

"Clearly you needed it."

Sherlock chewed and chewed until the toast was nothing more than a smooth paste, then swallowed. "I suppose I did. How about you?"

"Not a wink. I came in here when the sun came up, took out the rubbish bin, did the dishes, dusted, swept and mopped the kitchen, did our laundry, went for a walk, did the crossword, read the paper."

"Very productive. Thank you." Upon seeing a look of confusion come over John's face, Sherlock clarified, "For doing all that. Thank you."

"You've never thanked me before."

Another tiny bite. Anything to give himself time to think of how to phrase his words—not something that he was used to doing. "Yes, well…things should be different now, yes? Now that we…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Yes," John said with a nod. "I'm also struggling with that. What exactly are we? Anything? Nothing?"

Sherlock grinned. "I was hoping you'd know that. I have no experience in this."

"You've seen my relationships. I'm hardly an expert. Then again, the reason my girlfriends leave me is because they think I'm shagging you. Can you imagine their faces when they find out?"

Both men started giggling like children. It soon escaladed into outright laughter. Sherlock, for the moment, forgot his pain, his headache, even about Jim. By the time they had regained their composure, Sherlock's abdominal muscles were sore and John had tears running down his face.

"I have always enjoyed making you laugh," John said. "It was a rare occurrence, but I was always secretly pleased when I did it."

"Wasn't a secret to me."

"Of course it wasn't. Drink." John nodded at the glass of water in Sherlock's hand, and the other man obediently took a small sip. "Sherlock. What about Jim?"

Sherlock's stomach churned at the name. Jim Moriarty. The detective glanced around the room, knowing full well that there were cameras planted, recording his every movement, every word. "What about him?"

John licked his lips as he thought of how to proceed. "Like I said…I'm not sure what we are. You say you're in love with me, yes?"

"I did say that. Yes."

"So what about Jim? Are you going to tell him? End it? How serious _are_ you two, anyway?"

Very," Sherlock said softly. "He is very, very serious about me."

John wanted to press on, but there was a knock on their door. He scooted his chair a few inches back, not wanting to give anyone the wrong idea (even though it was now, technically, the right idea) and said, "Yeah, come in."

The door slowly opened and Jim entered. He was wearing bright green corduroys, a black t-shirt with the words 'I'LL BE BACH' written on it over a picture of the composure with his half his face replaced by a robotic skull.

"Hi," Jim said to John tersely, though a wide smile was on his face. "Sherlock, dear, how do you feel? Are you all right?" He walked right over to the man and sat on the couch beside him, putting his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "I was worried about you. I tried to call but you didn't answer, I was about to—"

"Fine, thank you," Sherlock interrupted. John noticed that there was something strange in his tone—annoyance? Anger?

"Well thank God for that," Jim continued. He began running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, stroking it, straightening the curls before letting them bounce back. "I really was quite worried. I don't know what I would do without you." His free hand slid over to Sherlock's stomach, gently rubbing it as he spoke. "I hope you feel the same way about me."

John stood up and turned around to carry his chair back to the desk. With his back turned, he couldn't see Sherlock's lips tilt into a frown or Jim's lift into a smirk.

"I'll leave you two lovebirds," he said. "Sherlock, I'll go out and do the shopping. Anything you need?"

"I'm here," Jim stated. "He already has what he needs."

John smiled politely as he gave a curt nod, grabbed his wallet off the desk, and left. Jim wasted no time. He moved his hand from Sherlock's stomach and punched him, square in the jaw, hard enough to make the man's head snap.

"Cheating on me, Sherlock?" he said angrily. "Really? Here I thought you were better than that. Not only better, but smarter, too." His face fell and he said in a sarcastically-sad, pouty voice, "How could you?"

Sherlock's jaw was throbbing in time with his head. He lifted a hand and touched it gingerly, checking for breakage, as Jim continued on.

"I should think you knew my biggest rule by now. Don't. Anger. Me." Jim spat each word as if it were its own sentence.

Sherlock surprised Jim by laughing. "Listen to yourself. You're like a jealous schoolgirl. 'Oh, Sherlock, how could you like someone else? I like you! Won't you be mine?' I pity you, Jim. So transparent. Whenever John and I begin to get even the slightest bit close, you arrive. You can't bear the thought of me being with him. It's not merely a game for you, not anymore. Not a game, not a competition. You want me."

He had expected Jim to get angrier, but he didn't. He smiled. "You're exactly right, Sherlock, dear. I do want you. Very much so. I want your body and I want that big, sexy brain of yours. You excite me. Excite me more than you know." He took one of Sherlock's hand in his own and placed it on his crotch. Sherlock could feel Jim's cock stirring in his pants. He went to pull his hand away, but Jim tightened his grip.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Not unless you want me to take John."

Sherlock looked from Jim's crotch to his eyes. "What?"

"I have men watching your flat twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. There are cameras in your apartment. I have access to both your and John's laptop computers and mobile phones. I have access to CCTV. You have no freedom, Sherlock. Your brother, your landlady, your friends at the police station, even the love of your life, are all at my mercy, even if they don't know about it. That is why it's so important for you to do what you're told."

Jim stood up and unbuttoned his trousers, pulling his cock out of his fly. "I suggest you start by sucking this."


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock used the bottom of the shirt to wipe his lips as Jim tucked his now-flaccid cock back into his trousers.

"I feel I should tell you, Sherlock…if you and John get any closer, I will burn you. I will burn the _heart _out of you." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Jim interrupted him. "Don't tell me you don't have one. We both know to what I am referring." Jim paused. Chuckled. "Or rather…to whom."

Sherlock paused. He was trying to phrase his next statement carefully, to not give anything away. "Why? Why would you do that? You know how it would upset me…how it would enrage me. What good would taking him away from me do you?"

Jim let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Don't you understand? Your happiness…it means nothing. You can love me, you can despise me. You really think that matters?" He knelt down and put his hands on either side of Sherlock's neck, applying just enough pressure to make the detective uncomfortable.

Even though Sherlock was uncomfortable—the discomfort quickly turning to pain—his face remained stoic. He looked into Jim's black eyes and could see a sea of emotions in them. Anger. Excitement. Hatred. Intrigue. Jealousy. Arousal.

"You're lying."

Jim raised his eyebrows, amused, and smiled. "Am I, now?"

"Yes. If you didn't care about my emotional state, you would have killed John already. You're jealous of him, but there is nothing you can do about it."

Jim pulled Sherlock's head down. Their faces were mere inches away from each other. "Explain. I'm curious to see how you came to that conclusion."

"It was simple. You want him dead, but you know that I would never forgive you if you hurt him. Somewhere in your black soul, you have feelings for me, and you want me to return them…something I would never do if you harmed John." Sherlock tried not to flinch as Jim began rubbing his bruised jawbone with his thumbs. The smile never left Jim's face.

"Feelings for you," Jim repeated, tilting his head back and forth as he contemplated the idea. "I've already admitted to it. Can you blame me? We were made for each other, Sherlock. I keep telling you that, but you don't seem to believe me."

"How could I? You are the bringer of death and destruction. You have no regard for rules, for order."

Jim pulled Sherlock's head down closer still to his. Whispering huskily, he said, "The devil incarnate, you could say. Don't worry, my dear. I'll make a believer out of you yet."

Sherlock's heart was beating fast and strong. He was excited, more excited than he had ever been in his life. He felt as if he were reading off a script. Jim brought death and destruction, yes, but he also brought something else—excitement. A challenge. A break from the normal, boring, everyday life that he trudged through. That was something that nobody else—not even John—could save him from.

Jim knew all this, and perhaps that is why he wasn't the least bit surprised when Sherlock closed the distance between and locked their lips in a warm, passionate kiss.

John returned to the flat about an hour after Jim left, which gave Sherlock just enough time to shower and apply make-up over his bruised jaw where Jim had punched him. As Sherlock had been bathing and dressing himself, he had gone over what he had done with Jim over and over in his mind.

_I want him_, he told himself, followed by, _but who do I mean by 'him'? John…it must be John. I love John. I have always loved John. Jim…Moriarty…it's the excitement, only the excitement. There's no real feeling behind it. And even if there were, I still want John._

Sherlock left the bathroom wearing John's robe—untied—and nothing else. His body and hair were still dripping wet. He headed to the kitchen to start a cup of tea. When he saw John there setting the grocery bags on the ground, he froze on the spot and pulled the robe tightly around his body. Too late. John had already seen him head-on.

"John! I—I didn't hear you come in…" John's face turned ten shades of red as he cleared his throat and made it a point to look anywhere but at Sherlock. Even though they had lived together for a time, they had never seen each other naked, never seen each other's equipment. A few beats of awkward silenced ensued. "So, erm…I see you got the shopping."

John busied himself by digging through the grocery bags again, pulling items out and setting on the table. "Yes, well…I did tell you that was where I was going."

"No rows with the machine this time, then?"

Chuckling, John said, "No, no rows this time…where's Jim?"

"Gone," Sherlock said quickly, eagerly. "I…sent him away."

"Sent him away? You told him about us, then?"

For a split-second, Sherlock considered lying. He realized, though, that the lie would encourage John to take their relationship further, faster. Jim's reaction to that would be…unpleasant.

"I'm sorry John," he said, and he meant it. "I thought it would be best to end it over a short time, instead of surprising him with it. Also, I think it only appropriate to wait until we know how to label our relationship before making any rash decisions."

John nodded. "I think that's the most human thing I've ever heard you say. The fact that you don't want to hurt him shows that he means a lot to you."

"_You_ mean a lot to me," Sherlock said quickly, in a lowered voice. He was fully aware that Jim—_Moriarty, Sherlock, Moriarty! Don't keep calling him Jim!_—was watching them, listening to every word they exchanged. "John, can you do something for me?"

Without hesitation, John said, "Anything. What do you need?"

"If you don't have anything planned for today, I was hoping you could visit Mycroft on my account. I still feel a bit under the weather." It wasn't a lie, not exactly. The truth was that he did still feel ill, but he didn't give a damn about visiting Mycroft. He just needed time alone, time to think.

"Yeah, sure," John was saying. "I had actually planned to go later on this afternoon."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Great minds think alike."

Jim Moriarty sat in his limo, drinking from a bottle of black Guinness lager that he held in one hand and watching video feed from his phone that he held in the other. He was on his way to Paris for a meeting, of sorts. Sebastian had tried to persuade him to fly, but Jim wouldn't hear of it. He was ecstatic to have the opportunity to watch Sherlock, even though he knew the detective would do thing after thing to enrage him.

The strong, pungent taste of his lager reminded him of his childhood, his adolescence, of his days growing up in Ireland in a tiny home with an abusive drunk of a father and a cold, cowardly mother. They had never cared about him. They had never nurtured him, never encouraged his gifts.

_But that doesn't matter now. I took care of them years ago._

"_You_ mean a lot to me," he heard Sherlock say. Jim cursed loudly and flung the beer bottle at the window, effectively shattering it and sending both suds and shards of glass flying.

"Great minds think alike," Sherlock said, another line which made Jim's blood boil.

"Great minds are made for each other," he told his phone. "You'll learn that soon enough, Sherlock. You'll learn that soon enough."


End file.
